Black Mirror
by 93BNMill
Summary: Peter's a good kid. He helps people and does his homework. When getting superpowers has him crashing into a Mask, Peter's unsure what to do when the Mask starts stalking him. Trying to keep his identity secret, and horrified by the Mask's constant blatant, sexual interest, Peter knows he's in over his head, but what can a kid do when his stalker doesn't take 'no' for an answer?
1. Chapter 1

**Black Mirror**

* * *

 **Author's Note**

I'm gonna be honest. I have no _fucking_ clue what I'm doing here.

I normally write Harry Potter. Not Marvel. Certainly not _Spider-Man_ and _Deadpool._ Though I do love Deadpool. However, I really wanted to write something for these two characters because we don't get to see many stories with the two of them in it. Actual stories that build upon themselves, with a plot and conflicts and lots of drama. I have found a few, though none of them are finished. I wanted my own twist to the fandom. Maybe one of these days there will be _more_ SpiderPool fanfics floating around, but, until then, we'll go with my own idea.

 **Story Idea**

Peter Parker, mutated by a radioactive spider, has his already chaotic world turned upside down. Having heightened senses and considerable strength, the teenager isn't sure what to do with his newfound powers. When his uncle is murdered in his and his aunt's home, he's resolved to stop bad people from hurting innocents. He's not expecting to try and help someone and crashland into a Mask, let alone one who starts stalking him afterward. Trying to keep his identity a secret, and horrified by the Mask's constant sexual harassment, Peter realizes he's in over his head. But what can he do when his personal stalker just won't take no for an answer?

 **AN Continued**

The idea was swimming around in my head, so damn funny to me. An underage age Peter being chased around by a flirtatious, highly inappropriate Deadpool who doesn't realize the "Superhero" he's hitting on is actually a kid. I crack up every time I think about it. Deadpool, being Deadpool, will screw _anything_ as long as its fun and it can be screwed. The man has no qualms when it comes to sex. He's a bit psychotic and unstable, and he's known to obsess over things that catch his interest.

There's also the conflicts between their morals: Peter refusing to kill and not being okay with others who kill against Deadpool and his _love_ of bloodshed and mayhem. The two will clash over their morals, in general. Not to mention the sexual harassment. They both have their own issues, and I think it'll be fun to see them grow and learn and balance off one another.

As far as character's go, Peter's a genius. I'm not a wise person, myself. I don't know shit about chemistry or anything like that, but Peter Parker is a smart person. I wanted to write a smart Peter, but do it in a way that doesn't make me sound stupid. Which meant I needed to find a way where he can something like chemistry, and what he's doing _below,_ make sense. The way his intelligence works in this story (and how his powers work, once he gets them) are different. His interests are different, his personality. I'm molding him into my own Spider-Man because he's a fifteen-year-old boy who happens to be very fucking intelligent and really, _really_ smart people tend to have issues.

So don't hate on me for how I'm writing Peter in this. He's _my_ Peter, in _Black Mirror._

On another note, Deadpool's not gonna show up for a while. The first few chapters are a way to introduce Peter, his family, his friends, and his adjustments to getting bitten and mutated by a radioactive spider (that's the next chapter, FYI). I'm not entirely sure _how_ to write Deadpool, and I'm so nervous about it. Kind of afraid, actually, because Deadpool is unpredictable and dangerous and dark and murderous and random. Not sure how I'm going to approach him, just yet, though I already have his and Spidey's meeting in my head. I just gotta work up to it. Until then, we have the first chapter in what I hope is a story some of you will enjoy.

So, without further ado, on with the story!

* * *

 **Chapter One**

* * *

Peter Parker wasn't what one would consider an average fifteen-year-old boy, though he often liked to think he was. He was smart, but not in a way that most geniuses tended to be. He was _smart,_ the world around him coming together easily in his mind's eye. Machines, especially. It wasn't about numbers or formulas or equations – those things, they were useless. It was patterns and connections, a need to be.

It was something he enjoyed, a passion he's had since he was a kid. Even now, as he sat on the floor in his basement (which was multi-roomed and all his), machine parts spread around him, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, hunks of metal and wire and copper on every surface, the teenager worked with a single-minded attention as he pieced together whatever creation was begging to be made.

He let it direct him, the machine knowing which parts it needed and where to put them. Peter could see where they went, could see the lines connecting one gear to another, one shaft into a network of turning wires and pieces of oddly-shaped metal disks. He barely noticed when the steps to the basement creaked, only heard the appreciating hum before an older man sat beside him.

"What's this?"

"An autoanima," Peter shifted the creature in his hands, watching as the slender neck moved fluidly and the single wing opened without issue. He checked the legs, his gaze narrowing on the talon-less feet. He needed to finish those. "It's a bird. A starling, to be precise. Small enough to not draw the cops attention."

Uncle Ben hummed under his breath, handing him the other wing before he even looked up to find it. The small teenager blinked, then smiled, and took the appendage. As he started piecing it together, locking the gears into place and making sure they're well-oiled, Uncle Ben watched with rapt fascination. Peter was used to such looks from the man, and Aunt May, too, when she wandered into the basement.

"Why autoanima instead of autoaves?"

"It _is_ an autoaves, Uncle Ben," Peter checked the wings, lifting the small machine bird up to make sure everything was well proportioned. Then he ran his thumb over the head, the black, pearl-like eyes and onyx beak beautiful. He twisted, finding the talons for its feet, as he said, "It's also an autoanima. It's an animal and it's a bird. Two classifications. Like actual birds, it has four values in its chest."

"What are the values for?"

Peter glanced over at his uncle, blinking owlishly as his bangs hung in his eyes. He pushed his glasses up as he answered, "It's the power center. It has a system regulation. They're connected. The topmost value connects to the head, processing its visual and audial processes. The side values control the wings and balance. The bottom value houses its landing, does checks and sends feedback to my computer."

As he sat there, something small and many-legged crawled up his bared knee. He looked down to see a machinal spider resting there, legs twitching and wavering like a real spider's limbs would. He set his hand down, watching, enraptured, as it moved onto his fingers. Uncle Ben offered a fond smile, rising from his seat on the ground as he said, "Aunt May wanted me to tell you it's almost time for school. I'll drive."

Peter glanced up. "But I just finished the starling."

He watched as Uncle Ben scooped up the bird and weaved his wave through the mess to the computer system resting against the wall. Peter followed, plopping down in his seat and powering up the tower and set in the last few commands on the starling's chip. Once it was done, he withdrew it and carefully pulled the chip from its casing and slipped the thin, tiny disk into the back of the bird's head.

He waited with bated breath as it laid, motionless, on the desk. He leaned in, gaze moving from its finished talons to its legs, moving over the body and its tail and the hard, metal planes of its back, when he saw the wings flex. Then they started flapping, frantically, as the bird tried to right itself and let out a soft, whirring sound of distress.

Peter reached out as the spider crawled up his hand, tucking his hands under the wings and getting the flying creature upright. The autoaves shook itself off, shaking its head, and then it hopped across the table. Peter, grinning, leaned back in his seat as he said, "Can you fly?"

The bird turned its neck and directed its steely, soulless gaze on him. Then it launched into the air.

Peter flew up the stairs, the starling flying over his shoulder through the open door and out into the hallway. It circled as it waited for him, Uncle Ben on his heels, and Peter was more than eager to make his way into the kitchen where Aunt May was setting breakfast on the table. When the bird swooped down and landed on the table centerpiece, a copper tree with many loops and turns, she shrieked.

It whirred back at her, settling its wings against its sides. Aunt May exhaled, hand on her chest as she turned to face him and his uncle, her eyes narrowing. "What have I said about making things that scare me, Peter Benjamin Parker?"

"It's not an _actual_ bird, Auntie," Peter plopped down in his seat, reaching over and letting the spider crawl onto one of the lower branches. His aunt shuddered at seeing it, making a face as he said, "They're machines. They don't eat our food. They don't make messes. Nothing to be frightened of."

"Don't be a spoilsport, May," Uncle Ben said with a loving smile, his own hand reaching up to ran an appreciative finger over the top of the autoaves's head. The older man turned to Peter, and the teenager, fork shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth, didn't bother slowing down as the man asked, "What else have you been working on. You don't often work on the animals, much. Not enough supplies."

Swallowing his mouthful, Peter buttered his toast as he said, "Right now I'm focusing on microbots."

He had a few in his pocket, small little machines no bigger than his pinkie. Not much material was needed to make them, and programming them was easy. He just needed to get the neurocranial transmitter he was working on working, one that wouldn't have to set across his forehead like a stupid headband that anyone could see. Something more elegant was needed, something easier to use and hide.

"What are microbots?" Peter's gaze shifted to his aunt as she asked the question.

He pondered the question, then answered, "They're tiny machines."

Peter pulled the three he was carrying out of his pocket, reaching across the table to hand them to her. Aunt May took them with great care, knowing he was as finicky with his machines as she was with her pottery and needlework. She turned the small machines over in her palm, gliding her fingers over the polished, onyx-like surface with awe in her eyes.

"How do you _make_ these things?"

"I just do," Peter took a bit out of his took, his wristwatch starting to beep. Uncle Ben laughed, rising from his seat, as Peter was up and around the table. He took the microbots back, tucking them into his pocket as he said, "I can't explain it. You know that. We're gonna be late, Uncle Ben."

"Hasn't been a minute, Peter," Uncle Ben returned, sounding more than a little amused.

Peter frowned. "We're supposed to be in the car _by_ the time my watch goes off."

They were out the door in record time, Uncle Ben driving through the winding streets of the city with the ease of a native. Peter busied himself in his textbooks, flipping through dozens of pages of completed homework. He knew all the answers were right. He didn't even need his textbooks, at this point in the term, but his teachers often didn't take well to that. He moved to his essays and reports, flipping through the pages and then checking to make sure all the sources were formatted properly.

"What will your microbots do?" Peter glanced up from his paperwork, knowing Uncle Ben only asked now because they both knew all of Peter's homework was perfect. Anything less was unacceptable. Peter put the folders away as he answered his uncle's question, "Once I have the neurocranial transmitter finished, they'll do whatever I want them to do. The possibilities will be endless. Unlimited. The only limit is what we can think of, what we can dream."

"Sounds dangerous, kiddo," Uncle Ben paused at a red light, one hand resting on the steering wheel and the other resting on the door where the window was rolled down. Peter's was, too. He traced the spot where the window vanished into the door, feeling the gap under his fingers as Uncle Ben continued, "I'm not a scientist or anything, but a lot of people would do bad things if they found out you were making those. The birds, the spiders, even that one attempt at the cat– those are easy to overlook. But _this…"_

"No one will know," Peter knew Uncle Ben wouldn't breathe a word. Peter wouldn't tell anyone, no one other than Uncle Ben. His own friends at school didn't know half the stuff he made, though they had seen his lab of metal and the random, machinal spiders crawling all over the place. "I don't plan on letting anyone know about the bots."

"Then why make them?"

The car started again, and, as they drove, Peter murmured, "Because I want to see if I can."

oOoOoOo

 _"Peeeeterrrrrr!"_

The energetic yell caught Peter's attention the moment Uncle Ben pulled up in front of the school, his gaze snapping up to see Edward Leeds, known by most as Ned, and Mary Jane Watson, known as MJ, running towards the car. Peter tapped a pattern on the door as Uncle Ben unlocked the door from his side, not moving as his uncle asked, "Do you need me to pick you up after school?"

"No," Peter opened the door and turned, his gaze settling on his uncle's gaze. "Not today. Ned and MJ, they're taking me to the dinner after school."

"Sounds good. Be home by curfew."

Uncle Ben drove away just as Ned and MJ got to his side, the two of them grinning as he turned to face them. He clasped hands with Ned, grinning easily as they did a side-arm-hug-thing he didn't understand, and then turned to have MJ throw her arms around his neck. She pulled back a second later, punching him in the arm as she yelled, "Late, Peter Parker!"

He checked his watch. "The buses don't arrive for another fifteen minutes."

MJ scowled, Ned laughed. The two looped their arms through his, dragging him across the grounds and into the school. They went to each of his classrooms, waiting patiently as Peter dropped off each of his assignments, and then they made their way through the hallways towards the cafeteria. When they entered the large room, Peter kept close to his two friends even as the third, who he was still confused about, came sauntering up.

"Hey, Peter," Harry Osborn was a senior, seventeen years old. He wasn't entirely how the older student and he had even met, but he went with it as he offered a gentle 'hi' in return. The millionaire carded his fingers through Peter's hair, bumping their foreheads together as he said, "Late, for once. Get lost in your underground lair? Or did the spiders bury you alive?"

He pulled away, clasping hands with Ned and giving MJ a side-hug as they made their way to their self-designated table. Peter dropped in his seat as he said, "Got a bit side-tracked. I got my autoaves finished this morning and was late for breakfast. You know how Aunt May can be."

"She's a good woman," Harry agreed, half-smile in place as he turned to MJ, "How's your art project?"

"It's going," the redheaded girl commented casually, not really saying anything. That's how things usually went. She reached over and grabbed Peter's wrist, startling him, and turned his hand over to eye the watch-face pressed against his pulse. "I have a few more layers of oils before its done, then it'll take a week to set. I'll start on the watercolors next."

The two continued to talk as Peter turned to Ned, voice low as he asked, "You get all your work done?"

"Yeah, I did," Ned sighed, running his hands through his hair. Peter knew why he was so frustrated, a sharp smile spreading across his face as Ned continued, "It was so damn _difficult,_ too! I was up all night trying to finish the history assignment. Then I realized half the answers weren't even _in_ the book!"

When Ned saw his expression, he scowled. "How long did it take you?"

"Fifteen minutes," Peter deadpanned.

Half the questions he recalled easily from the books, others from worksheets they did and others from the movies they had watched. Movies Ned should have taken notes over, which Peter pointed out as his gaze shifted to the buses appearing in the circle drive down the way outside.

Ned groaned. "Sometimes, Peter, I really _do_ hate you."

On Peter's other side, Harry said, "Harsh, dude. Peter can't help remembering _everything_ he reads."

"He remembers everything he sees, too," MJ offered with a shit-eating grin, and Peter really wanted to sink into the table. She was supposed to _help_ him, not make his life harder. Harry blinked, and MJ laughed gleefully as she continued, "He could tell you _everything_ the cafeteria has served for the entire time he's actually _eaten_ in here. He could probably tell you were anyone's sat, too. Or what they were wearing."

"MJ, _please,"_ Peter dropped his face in his hands, rubbing at his skin and over his eyes in frustration.

"Seriously?" Harry asked.

Peter looked up to see Ned giving the rich-boy a serious look. "For real, Harry. I've seen him do it before."

Harry's gaze turned to him, eyes wide. Peter shifted, uncomfortable, and looked out the window. He could remember everything, if he thought about it. Calling up facts was easy. He could remember a subway he was on a month ago, see it in his mind's eye like a still picture that was in perfect clarity. He could see the graffiti on the wall, see the homeless man sleeping in the seat and how _bright_ the red scarf around his neck was. He could see a skinny man, dressed in rags, wore expensive shoes that would cost a fortune.

He could see his own bedroom and every crack in the concrete walls, see where the floor dipped from a creaking foundation. He could easily go up two flights of stairs to the second floor and turn down the hall and see straight out a window into the neighbor's upstairs living area where the wall across the room had a massive, wide crack in it. It was like the fact the woman who lived across the street from them changed the light on her front porch every day– blue, green, red, violet, blue, yellow…

Peter watched as the teacher's gathered together. "Time to go."

His mind whirled to the current objective: Oscorp Industries. Harry's father worked there, CEO of the company, and Harry himself worked there four days a week after school. He had Wednesdays off. Why, Peter wasn't sure. Was it a personal choice? He glanced over at the wealthy senior, curious, and then let his thoughts whirl back into place.

His school was taking a trip to Oscorp, touring it in a sense. Peter had a feeling Harry was behind it given Peter had expressed an interested in the studies on genetically modified arachnids. It was one of the rooms they would be allowed in, under careful observation from the scientists, and Peter was eager. In what ways would a modified spider differ from a normal one? Were there differences between those who were venomous and those who weren't? What were their senses like?

He had questions without answers, and he now had a chance to get them answered.

It didn't take them long to start getting on the bus, and, as Peter was making his way for the bus's door, a hard shoulder slammed into his side and threw him to the ground. His glasses flew off his face, and, above him, Eugene Thompson, known simply as Flash, stepped down on his hand as he said, "Sorry, Parker, didn't see you there."

The older boy made his way onto the bus as Peter rose to his hands and knees, his wrist throbbing where Flash had stepped down on it. His rolled the joint, feeling for damage. Just a tad bruised, he mused after a moment. He grabbed his glasses and put them on before standing, shaking himself off and climbing on board. He found his three friends at the back, and he settled in by Harry since MJ and Ned were sharing a seat. The older boy grabbed his hand, eyeing the already darkening skin on his wrist.

"What happened?" There was a dangerous note to his voice, a subtle fury that caught Peter by surprise.

Across from them, Ned leaned in. "Flash again?"

"Flash?" Harry questioned, looking towards MJ and Ned when Peter remained tightlipped.

The bus kicked into gear as MJ said, "Flash Thompson. He's a junior. He and Peter haven't gotten along since day one. Flash tends to push him around."

Peter turned the rest of the conversation out, his gaze focused on the hand wrapped around his and the thumb that rubbed the bruising flesh. He tore his eyes away, wanting to be by the window, but knew he couldn't ask Harry to trade him sides since they were already sitting down. He opted to lean back in the seat, his head tilted back and resting against the seat. He let his eyes drift shut, turning his senses to the faint hum of the bus and how it jerked and groaned with every pothole it hit.

He relaxed into the turns of the massive vehicle, trying to map out the directions in his head as they went just by how the bus shifted under him. It was difficult, likely wrongly constructed, but it would be interesting to see if the directions matched once he looked them up. When Harry's arm wound around his shoulder, Peter's eyes eased open just as Harry asked, "How did you and Flash meet?"

His mind whirled, days rewinding to a year.

He was fourteen, his birthday three days prior. He remembered thinking all the other kids were taller than him, somehow. He hadn't wanted to stay, begged Uncle Ben to take him home. He agreed to stay once his uncle asked him to try the new school for a week. If nothing good happened in all that time, he could stay home and continue his studies online. Like he _had_ been doing.

It was third hour, gym. He had dressed for class, sweatpants and a too-large T-shirt, when Flash had come in and seen him. Peter hadn't realized staring him down, in the way he generally did with people, would have caused the older boy to react badly. Getting shoved into a locker because he was 'in the way' had been an odd response, all of Flash's friends laughing in the background.

These details Peter related calmly, with a matter-of-fact tone. Harry's eyes were narrow, lips pressed in a tight line, and then he said, "Yeah, you have one hell of an intense look on a _normal_ basis, but that's not a reason to _bully_ you."

"I don't think Flash liked the _'you're stupider than me, so go away'_ look Peter had then," Ned was grinning, eyes alight with laughter at his own description. Then the larger boy blinked, looked quickly towards the front of the bus, and then said, "Frankly, Peter, you _still_ have that look on your face all the time. That _'I'm bored, you're stupid, have a nice day'_ look. Sad thing is, it's accurate. You _are_ smarter than us."

"You just don't apply yourself to your studies, Ned," Peter felt his cheeks flushing, and he fisted his hands against the loose material of his jeans. He wasn't used to this, not so bluntly and out in the open. He knew his friends thought that, but they didn't think _less_ of him for it. "I can't help it. And I've told you, _all_ of you, that I'll help you study for your tests if you need help. It's not a big deal or anything."

MJ gave a dreamy sigh. "That's why we love you, Peter. You're oblivious."

"Oblivious about what?" Peter looked between the three, calming into the seat when Harry squeezed his shoulder, and then sat up a bit higher to look over the seats out the front window. He adjusted his glasses as he said, "How much longer till we get to Oscorp? The teachers didn't give us a timeframe."

There wasn't much reason for any of them to answer, Peter realized as they turned onto another street and then pulled into a corporate driveway. The driver gave the guard at the gate his driver's license and then they were driving closer and closer towards the massive building rising in the distance. Peter was bouncing in his seat, eager to have the vehicle to park so he could get out and start exploring.

How many floors were there? How many would they see?

What floor were the genetically modified spiders on? How long would they be allowed to observe them, and would the scientists be open to questions? Would they be allowed to interact with the arachnids, to handle them? Peter was out of his seat the moment the bus parked, but Harry pulled him back down with a sharp, startled laugh.

"Easy there, Pete," Harry looped his arm around his shoulder as he said, "Let the others get off before you mow them over. The spiders aren't going anywhere."

Peter huffed. Then he looked at Harry. "Will we see their engineering department, too?"

"Sure, if you want," Harry said easily, offering a grin. "I'll take you there myself, if I have to."

Once they were all out of the bus, Peter was too excited, too filled with energy, to hold still. In front of him was Oscorp Industries, one of the leading companies that covered a wide range of explorations from genetic modification, mutations, weapons and engineering, medicine, and politics. Oscorp had its hands in _everything,_ from what Peter understood. Its products could be found in stores as easily as it could be found in the military, their leading experts driving the playing ground for further development.

And now Peter was here, soon to be walking through those halls.


	2. Chapter 2

**Black Mirror**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

* * *

Oscorp Industries was massive, containing one-hundred and twenty-three floors total.

Peter eyed the building's map, housed strategically in the middle of the lobby, and took in the various floors and the different names. Some were offices, others were labs, some had no labels. He blinked at the last, curious. Why list those floors but not say what they were for? He tossed this question at Harry with the unshakable belief the senior would know the answer, something that had Harry laughing when the older boy asked why Peter wanted to know.

"Sometimes the floors _are_ empty," Harry explained as they followed one of the secretaries into a room through a side door at the back of the lobby, away from the stairs and elevators, where they would all get Guest IDs, though Harry himself didn't need one. "When offices are being moved, or a project finishes or gets canceled, the floor gets shut down and everything gets cleaned up. Safety inspections, too."

Peter pondered this for a moment before saying, "Engineering and analysis are in the sublevels, if the map's right. Where are the spiders?"

"Floor sixty," Harry kept his arm around Peter's shoulders, the smaller boy tucked against his side. Peter looked up at his friend, curious. Harry, seeing the questions before Peter could form them in a coherent and logical manner, continued, "If we want to be accurate, it's floors are fifty-through-seventy. That's where all the genetics are kept, along with labs and storage. There's also a few classrooms mixed in there, for the few rare times Genetics need to have a seminar or a conference with outside contractors."

Oscorp was busy, to be it mildly. As Harry and the class walked through the lower floors, Peter fidgeted and shifted and let Harry pulled him back against his side. His hand strayed to his pocket, the three bots within cool under his fingertips. MJ had her MP3 player tucked into her back pocket, one headphone tucked in her ear as she walked in front of them. Ned was off to the side, reading a "history" sign stuck to the wall detailing the processes of the current department (hydraulics) and current developments.

He absorbed what information he heard, but he was more eager to get down in the basement or high up in the air where the spiders weaved their webs. Metal and living, breathing creatures; the two kept his interest over the years, eventually fusing into his own hobby Uncle Ben dubbed "Mecha Mania." Peter wasn't entirely _sure_ what 'Mecha Mania' was supposed to be, but he liked the ring of it. It was interesting.

When they took the elevators into the basement, not even Harry was able to keep him close.

Peter was as close to the doors as the security guard in the elevator would let him, and Harry was talking to the serious-looking man. The guard glanced at him afterward, expression softening. What had Harry said to the guy, to make him change how he looked? Peter stared at the man, then looked at Harry, and then jumped when the doors of the elevator opened.

Peter was out and into the hallway before anyone could say anything, body practically vibrating with the need to see what metals this place had. What gears and coils and creations did they possess? Did they have black boxes? Did they have mainframes for computers, chips and circuits and nuts and bolts to play with? Were there things for welding and molding metal to whatever form he could think of?

Were there metals he's never even _seen?_

Peter made his way through the open hallway, turning left at the first intersection to find himself in a massive room filled with all sorts of odds-n-ends. Peter's fingers twitched at his side as he made his way down the stairs, eager to exam what was within this room, to roll the twisting metal springs between soft fingertips and to see how the light glanced off the metal with a breathtaking beauty.

"Peter!" Harry was jogging towards him, cheeks pink. There was an easy grin on his face, the guard behind him looking oddly putt off as Harry said, "God, Peter, I know you're excited. You still have to stay with the group. See anything you like?"

Oh, did he. Peter was already weaving between the tables, eyes alight. "I like _everything_ here, Harry!"

The microbots in his pocket could benefit from so much _stuff_ in this room. The metals would be good for upgrades, making them more durable. The different chips from the computers, the motherboards and the monitors and the piles of small, metal disks, were invaluable to someone who lived for machines. Peter could already see the air shimmering, knowing which little odds-n-ends would give the microbots in his pocket the edge they needed to be _more_ than what they were.

He spied a few active computers in the room off from the one he stood in, the wall covered in monitors that listed dozens of codes that made little sense. All those rules and guidelines, people always making the work harder than needed – Peter wasn't shy, and he didn't hesitate to make his way into that room, content in ignoring the hard stares the men in their chairs gaze him as he ran one hand over the keys of an unoccupied computer.

The monitor lit up the moment his hand was on the keyboard, and Peter grinned. His fingers tapped a quick command in, watching, happy, as the computer's script covered the screen. He could see where the computer lagged, where it was sick and unhappy. A few new commands had a list on the side, green eyes sweeping over the code before he blinked. Turning, he looked at Harry as he said, "They're going to trash this one. Why?"

One of the other men on his _own_ computer made a choking sound. "That's confidential information!"

Harry's gaze narrowed at the man. "Why are you getting rid of this one computer?"

"It's obsolete," the man replied, after a moment. Peter didn't miss the glare tossed his way. "Rules."

Peter shook his head. His gaze was on Harry in a matter of seconds, mouth closing when Harry pressed one finger over his lips. He kept quiet as the older said, "I'll see that you get this computer. If they're going to throw it away, then you might as well have it once it's cleared."

He didn't _want_ it cleared, didn't want it wiped and without its spark. Peter knew he couldn't press this, though. He knew Oscorp would hand a computer over, not without it having been stripped of all its done and where its been. He ran his fingertips over the keyboard, offering a silent promise before letting Harry drag him away towards the rest of the rooms that couldn't hold his attention.

He'd make that computer _perfect,_ once it was in his basement.

When they started making their way up, higher and higher and _higher,_ Peter knew where they were going. He nearly ran Ned over in his excitement, and the large boy laughed joyfully at his excitement while MJ linked an arm with his. When the doors slide open, a woman was waiting for them.

There were a few others, one being a guard who led Harry away as the scientist said, "I will be the one showing you to the Arachnid's Housing Chambers, where we'll observing my staff working with the spiders from the safety of the observation bay. Come, let's get started."

Peter felt a wave of disappointment. Observation. They wouldn't be able to actually _see_ the spiders up close, though he kept close to the woman as they entered a circular hallway where one wall was made of glass. On the other side was a complex maze of tall, web-laden shelves. The woman began to talk, but Peter was more focused on the rooms and the people in them, his eyes narrowed as he tried to see one of the infamous spiders.

After a moment, he cut in, "Can one of the scientists bring a spider to the glass? So we can see it?"

The woman paused in whatever she was getting ready to say, blinking. Then she pressed a hand to her earpiece, murmuring into the headset, and she gestured them to follow her around a bend where the large, web-laden units were further from the glass. A person in a bio-hazard suit approached, a black cloth in his hands. He paused in front of the glass as the woman gestured Peter closer.

In the cloth was a spider, a soft white one that lifted and waved its legs in a soft, hypnotic dance. "These spiders are highly venomous, as I mentioned in the beginning. That is why only personnel with specialized degrees are allowed to handle the spiders. You can see from its color and size that these spiders are not your average ones, each of them adorned with markings. The colony has a soft, white-blue marking that gets brighter when they feel threatened."

Peter was as close as he could get, his hand against the glass wall as he stared, transfixed, at the beauty the person on the other side held upon the black cloth. Against so dark a fabric, the spider seemed delicate, as if made of freshly fallen snow. A snowflake spider. The woman urged them on, drawing them away so the man could continue his work. Peter didn't want to see it go, felt cold on the inside without actually getting to _see_ the spiders in the way he had hoped.

Once they were back out in the waiting area, Ned and MJ alerted him to Harry even as the older boy said, "I would have thought him more excited."

"Not gonna happen, Harry," MJ's voice was soft and gentle, but Peter didn't bother looking up from his shoes. His mind was stuck on the spider upon the black cloth, on how its thin and graceful limbs seemed to dance and move. MJ sighed, voice soft as she said a moment later, "I'm sure he was hoping for a better introduction. Being stuck in a hallway of glass wasn't his idea of a proper greeting to his favorite creature."

He wasn't sure how long the lady talked about the studies they were conducting with the spiders when Harry pulled him away, the older boy holding a finger to his lips. Peter kept quiet, wondering what was going on as they vanished through an employee door and made their way through the backrooms with an ease that had Peter wondering if Harry snuck off often when his dad brought him to work with him.

When they were nearing massive wall with 'AHC' etched into the front, Peter knew _exactly_ what his friend was doing even as the older boy stopped him and said, "Look, we can get in trouble if we get caught. I'd say it's safe to say there's one rule you _must_ follow. N _o touching._ They might be genetically modified, but they're still spiders and they're dangerous. Agree to this, and I'll take you in."

Peter was more than happy to agree, if it meant he could be in the _same room_ as the spiders. He was quick to say he wouldn't touch. He did, however, warn the other he would get as close as he was able without touching the creatures he was so eager to see. Peter's breath caught as the doors slid open to allow him into the room with the deadly spiders, their white bodies gleaming as bright, blue-silver markings colored their abdomens.

Harry kept to his side, the two of them the only ones in the room as they stepped onto the revolving platforms the spider's large, rectangular housing units rested on. Those same units covered the walls and made rows of shelf-like structures throughout the room, each unit covered in silver webbing and the ceiling hidden by layers of silk thread the spiders wove.

"We can't stay too long," Harry's hand grazed his lower back, prodding him towards the central unit that all other webs seemed to connect to. Peter eyed how the webs above their heads came down in a point, connecting to the tower. Hundreds of large spiders covered this one unit, all of them revolving around one spider whose markings glowed brighter than the rest. The pretty, enchanting green luster kept his attention as the senior murmured, "This is the Mother Cluster. All other spiders are bred from these here, though the Queen hasn't yet produced any young."

Peter pointed out the only spider marked with green. "Is she the Queen?"

"Yeah, she is," Harry stood directly behind him, the two of them watching as the spider in question, large compared to normal spiders but considerably smaller than the others in this Cluster, seemed to crawl out of the mass of spiders to rest on the surface. "She's the hardest to handle, too. More than a few doctors have been…fatally injured, due to improper handling."

Peter wanted to hold her. He was sure the Queen _wanted_ him to reach out for her, for him to lift her from the Cluster and steal her away. Harry's hands, wrapped around his wrists, kept him from doing such a thing, and Peter suspected Harry felt how his hands tensed as if wanting to raise up. The soft laugh in his ear proved it, even as Harry said, "No, Peter, you _can't_ touch any of them. We have an agreement."

"I know we do," Peter couldn't look away from the eyes of the spider, from the glowing, neon green markings covering the white spider's body. She was beauty incarnate, something rare and precious and so _beautiful_. It was criminal, keeping her locked and hidden away. The Queen's third legs on either side raised, then, fluttering in the air a few inches from her body. Then her front legs snapped straight up into the air, quivering and jerking about in a bizarre dance that left him enchanted. "She's beautiful, Harry…"

"She's communicating," Harry told him, nudging his side to point at one of the Cluster Units surrounding the Mother Cluster. Peter looked, eyes widening as the spiders were still, all of them facing the same direction with their third legs raised. "She's directing them. Sometimes she has them build new webs. The scientists here think she has some higher intelligence. She had the Clusters rearranged to look like this after one of the cleaners left a magazine in here on the use of space."

The Queen was still doing her dance, and Peter noticed all the spiders, on all Units, were doing the same odd movements in response. Peter stepped to the line surrounding the Mother Cluster, watching the Queen stopped her dance. Her legs didn't fall, but Peter got a distinct feeling she was staring at him. His lips curled into a fond smile as he murmured, "A shame that such a beauty like you is hidden away in this room. I'd love to take you home with me."

A beeping sound came from the back of the room, from quarantine, and Harry said, "That's the timer. If we don't want to get caught being in here, we gotta leave _now."_

Peter let Harry pull him away, feeling oddly bereft for some reason. The moment he was outside of arm's reach, the Queen's dance resumed. Now it was frenzied, all her legs moving and jerking as she started to move across the Cluster. They were stepping out of the Central Platform when Harry let out a startled yelp and Peter's gaze swung to see a white spider being swatted off the dark-haired teen's arm.

Peter lunged forward, saving the spider from an ill-intentioned boot. The spider was still in his hands even as Harry squeaked, "Peter, you can't _pick it up!"_

 _"You were going to squish him!"_ Peter turned, brazening moving to one of the Housing Units. The spiders cleared an area as Peter reached for it, the spider in his hand moving to his fingertips as dozens came raining down from the ceiling. Even as one spider left Peter's body, another landed on his shoulder as others landed on the floor or on Harry. Peter whirled, voice sharp as he said, "Don't even _think_ about hurting any of them!"

"I'm not going to let them _bite_ me, Peter!"

"The last one didn't!"

Peter didn't swat at the ones landing on his clothing, didn't flinch when one tickled his cheek when it crawled its way down through his hair. He caught Harry's hands, willing him into stillness even as Peter felt a spider brush against the back of his neck. He ignored it in favor of steering Harry _away_ from the spiders swarming across the room, closer to the safe zone. As he went, he carefully brushed the many-legged creatures from his friend's person.

"You just gotta stay calm. None of them are biting," Peter reminded his friend. Harry nodded shakily, his eyes wide as he stared at him. Peter knew why, could see himself– covered in dozens of ghostly white spiders –in his friend's eyes. Peter eased one away from Harry's neck as he said, "You said it yourself. The Queen is the dangerous one. She hurt someone, killed someone because they didn't handle her right. The rest is the same. As long as you handle them with care, you're fine."

Once he was sure Harry was clear of spiders, he pushed him towards quarantine, watching him shake himself off even as Peter himself began to carefully remove the spiders from his body. As he was kneeling, one knee to the ground, a sharp, shooting pain cut through the back of his neck. His breath choked in his throat as he pressed one hand to the floor, watching as a few spiders crawled off and another, large white spider skittered up his sleeve to vanish under his clothing.

The numbing that swept through him, as he exhaled, came as a terrifying relief. Heat surged under his skin, dangerous in its implications. Peter rose to his feet slowly, careful to keep his face neutral as he stepped through the glimmering wall of energy that checked him for oddities. Peter stayed still, conscious of the spiders tucked against his body, and was startled when he was given a green light.

"Are you alright?" Harry was grabbing his hand, pulling him towards him. "Peter, were you bit?"

"I was startled," Peter murmured when he felt something stir against the back of his neck, knowing, somehow, that the spider there was _listening_. The younger male glanced into his friend's eyes. "One of the spiders crawled out from my sleeve. I hadn't thought any of them managed to get in my clothes."

Harry looked close to passing out when he processed that. "We should have someone look you over."

"No, no we shouldn't," Peter put a hand against Harry's chest, the fluttering of many legs against the back of his neck warning enough. He pressed Harry back, happy the older boy backed up. "We weren't supposed to be in here unsupervised, not when we had a glance from observation. You broke company rules, Harry. I can't have you putting your future at risk. And the scanner gave me the 'all clear.'"

He felt another spider crawling up his arm, eight legs brushing the crook of his elbow as Harry stared, his gaze intent. Peter held that gaze, refusing to back down as he said, "I was startled. They didn't bite me."

Harry exhaled, sighing. "Alright. Fine. But if you start showing _any_ symptoms of illness, I'm taking you straight to my father and the doctors. My future job be damned."

They left the spiders and their containment rooms, Peter breathing in with care. The back of his neck was numb, the ice slowly spreading down to his shoulders and upper back. When they rejoined the group, the noise was shrill; Peter's stowaways pressed close against his skin. He could feel them, almost flat. It was as if they were trying to burrow into his skin to get away from all the people around them, and he hoped they didn't actually _try_ to chew their way into his flesh.

When Harry and Peter slid in between Ned and MJ, whatever tension they felt melted away and Peter was able to relax. MJ leaned into his side as she said, "How was it? Everything you thought it would be?"

Ned and Harry were looking at him, gazes intense. Peter smiled. "It was, and so much more."

As they finished their tour through Oscorp, Peter was conscious of the spider creeping up his arm. It had moved to the inside, safe between the gentle pressed of his arm and side until it was hidden in the fine hairs of his underarm. Peter wondered if his deodorant was holding up. Getting bit in the armpit wasn't something he wanted to deal with, if these genetically mutated spiders had a picky sense of smell.

The ride back to school, and then to the Diner (even if Peter wasn't feeling up to it) was uneventful. His body felt cold, and a sense of extreme exhaustion was licking at the edges of Peter's senses, but he fought it off with ice cream and hot chocolate. Ned and Harry were sitting together, the larger boy showing the older boy their homework as Peter turned to MJ.

"Did you enjoy the field trip?"

"I would have preferred the Zoo or museum," MJ waved her spoon in the air, voice lowering as she said, expression pinched, "Too many suits suck the fun out of a trip. They were all so _suspicious_ of a bunch of high schoolers. Like any of _us_ could steal something from Oscorp right out from under their noses."

Peter had, and his stowaways (he wasn't sure _how_ many there were) were still on him. They hadn't moved in a long while, each of them hidden somewhere warm and inviting. He didn't tell her this, naturally, and he kept his tone even as he said, "Maybe they thought someone might try to sneak in while we were there. A couple dozen high school students touring one of the leading companies in the world provides a good cover for someone serious enough."

"True, though that's a bit of a conspiracy story, don't you think?" MJ stabbed her spoon into her hot fudge sundae, the thing scarily tall. She took a bit before she said, "It's odd, though. The security increased after you and Harry returned from your little trip to Spider Land."

He had a feeling he knew why, though he kept that to himself. Harry's half-smile told him the older boy was thinking the same thing, the two of them sharing in a silent knowing their other friends understood since Ned and MJ covered their disappearance from the room: Peter's sugar dropped, and Harry took him to get some juice so he'd recover. It explained why they were gone, leaving none the wiser to what they had _really_ done. Granted, he wasn't diabetic, but he did get sluggish when he didn't eat enough.

Something _all_ his friends knew.

Uncle Ben showed up around eight to take him home, and Peter couldn't have been happier. He bid his friends goodbye before crawling into the back seat, lying out across the cushions and hyperaware of many pairs of legs crawling along his sides and over his stomach. The one on the back of his neck flattened its legs but didn't move, and Peter's breathing evened out.

Once home, he let himself down into the basement that was his space. He locked the door behind himself before plopping down on the sofa, shrugging out of his hoodie he couldn't remember putting on. A white spider stretched against the crook of his elbow, moving down his arm to rest on his pants as another made its way up his side and out the sleeve of his short-sleeved shirt. It stayed attached to the fabric until Peter nudged it onto his hand, where it went willingly.

That left one more, the one on his neck. When he reached behind himself, he felt its legs brush his fingers before it curled around them. He pulled it up and away, bringing the last of the three, white spiders to eye-level. He blinked, dread curling through his stomach when he spied the bright, neon-green markings of the Queen whose venom, Harry had said, killed a man within minutes. Then he noticed the web sticking out of her abdomen, the thread glimmering with tiny, crystalline dewdrops that had Peter staring in complete and utter confusion.

What the _fuck_ were those? And where was the web…

Peter followed it back around, the silken thread harder and thicker than he thought it would be. When he realized it _connected to the back of his neck,_ he let his hand drop. He stared at the Queen in his hand, saw how her limbs shuddered and barely moved, and he sighed. He looked at the other two, white and blue and so _pretty,_ were directing their bodies in the Queen's direction.

"Alright, you two, I'm gonna stand. Either hang on or don't run away once I'm up," Peter watched as the two started moving the moment he began speaking, eyebrow raising as they perched on his shoulders as he made his way towards his bed in the other room. He sank down gratefully, sinking onto his side so he could cradle the Queen in his hand. He kept her close to his body, hoping his body heat might help as the two other spiders, so much larger than her, crawled onto his wrist and settled in. "Don't bit anyone, kay?"

Peter was already drifting off, but he got the impression the spiders flicked their legs in what he _assumed_ was an agreement.

* * *

 **Author's Note**

We have reached the end of chapter two, I'm happy to say!

Any errors in the text are my own, considering I'm not able to catch _everything._ Anyway, Peter's been bitten! And he brought home stowaways! Three of them. The Queen and two, larger spiders. How will _they_ factor in, and how will Peter's powers manifest in this? Will he need webshooters or will I take my own twist on this? I'm still debating. Everyone has their own take on how _that_ part of the story works, and I'm curious to know what all of you think.

I'm also shocked so many of you have favorited or alerted this story, watching out for another update. I hope this chapter didn't disappoint.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, so, please: _favorite, follow, and review!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Black Mirror**

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

* * *

A fever hit, hard and unrelenting and fervent in its intensity.

Peter twisted and groaned in his bedsheets, hair clinging to his damp cheeks and neck. His heart was racing within his chest, beating _too_ fast, but his voice came out as a breathy whisper when he tried to call his uncle for help. His voice was gone when he tried to call for Aunt May, body seizing as thin, fine-haired limbs ghosted over his skin. His vision swam, giants of silver, sapphire, and emeralds spinning him tight in their webs; so tight Peter couldn't find a way to free himself, a prisoner to the fever and his racing heart.

When the silken webs wound around his face, wrapping slowly, one thread after around, around his eyes, Peter felt panic as he was drawn into white darkness. Peter was lost to sensation, to how his skin tingled and the hairs on his arms and neck seemed to stir and shift and stand on end. When his skin started to itch and burn, he cursed the binds holding him still – the need to claw at his skin, to tear it away, was sharp and vicious. His few boughs with poison ivy paled in comparison to the itch eating him alive.

Then the pain hit, centered around his hands and feet and within every joint on his body. His wrists ignited, the skin splitting; Peter _smelled_ iron in the air. He inhaled and there was iron in the air, in his mouth, in all his senses – _and he couldn't escape from it._ The pain flowed up his arms, flowing steadily into the back of his neck, and he seized again, silently screaming as pain spiraled, frenzied, down his spine. Thin, fine-haired limbs caressed his exposed cheeks, almost soothing _if not for the pain,_ and Peter's eyes watered.

When unconsciousness pulled him under, Peter's body sang with relief as it, finally, relaxed.

Two spiders crawled over his bound limbs and torso, their bodies glowing an ethereal silver-blue as they spun web after web. One shimmering, emerald spider rested on his head, strips of skin showing between the nose and mouth, allowing air to pass unhindered. Thin legs trembled as a long, hard web steadily eased from the Queen's spinnerets, the dewdrops of evolution dripping from the silk to fall on the cocoon her two workers had woven under her careful guidance. Her web glimmered, almost glowing in the dark of the human's nest, as it steadily sank into his body.

The webs covered everything, from the human boy's body to his bed and then, further, to the walls and ceiling. The room was one massive web, the gossamer silk vibrating as black, undead spiders carefully made their way over the threads as large, black, undead birds flew between gaps to land on whatever perch their hard, unnatural feet could land on.

Caught in the mess was Peter, Friday slipping into Saturday, and then into Sunday.

It was dark, when he began to stir once more. He drew in a shaky breath, his chest rising sharply, and then he tried to stretch. His limbs did not move, his arms folded into his stomach and held, firm and tight, in place by what _felt_ like the world's softest rope. He laid there, for a moment, in uncomprehending confusion. Why was he _tied up in his own bed?_

His first thought jumped to Harry, Ned, and MJ. This seemed like the kind of prank the three of them would pull, knowing how much of a deep sleeper he could be. Then when he tried to open his eyes, he found that he _couldn't._ It was almost like his lashes were glued shut, held down against his cheekbones. It was an a startling realization that _he was fully bound,_ his feet and arms unable to move and tied tightly against the rest of him. His skin prickled as panic overtook him, and he jackknifed his body to the side. He felt the bounds tearing, felt them stretching, sticky, as he forced his arms and legs apart and flailed.

When his hands were free, he ripped the bandage, or the silken sheet or whatever the fuck it was, off his face. The sight waiting for him left him wide-eyed and stunned into stillness. The _entire basement_ was covered in silken, dewdrop-laden webs. Many of the webs were nothing more than threads crisscrossing through the open air, stretching from floor to ceiling while dozens of smaller, circular webs branched out between them. Peter's jaw dropped, his mind screeching to a halt.

He carefully pushed the webs aside that circled his bed, densest where he slept and getting thinner the further out they went. The webs, they were _soft_ under his fingers. They came apart easily as he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and, when he stood, the world tilted. His hand shot out and caught hold of his headboard, the wood groaning, and then _splintering,_ under his hard, unsteady grip.

Peter yelped and jerked away, arms pinwheeling as he stumbled backward into a network of webs that caught, and held, him up. When he heard the soft hissing of fine-haired limbs dancing over the silken threads, Peter's gaze shot to the left to see three spiders, two glowing blue, and the smaller green, Friday came rushing back to him in a flurry of sickening details.

The Queen had bitten him, and then he fell ill.

"What day is it?" Peter rolled, pressing his hands against the webs beneath him absently. When he couldn't get his feet to work, he hooked his fingers around the webs and hauled himself across them. His calendar was by his desk. He'd crawl there if he couldn't walk. He moved from one web to the next, the room tilting and swaying until the walls were the floor and the ceiling and floor were the walls. As he reached between the threads of the web, hitting a key on his computer and seeing 'SUNDAY' staring back at him, Peter stilled. Then he looked at the floor, because the _walls_ weren't the floor. _"What the fuck?"_

His grip faltered, and he crashed down onto his desk, knocking the tower and monitor from the desk and sending his lamp colliding with a web. As he hit the desk, he flipped and landed, on all fours like some kind of _mutant cat,_ on the ground. He stared at his hands as the hairs, standing tall, shifted and moved. Then Peter realized he wasn't even wearing his glasses – _he shouldn't be able to see the hairs on his hands and arms,_ let alone crawl on walls and land on the floor with a feline-esque six sense.

He heard Uncle Ben coming down the steps, then he heard his voice, "Peter? Peter, are you alright?"

"I'm fine!" The teen called back as he climbed to his feet, blinking as his vision swayed and multiplied.

He _wasn't_ fine, he _knew_ that, but what could he say? _Sorry, Uncle Ben, I just woke up wrapped in a spider web and now I can walk on walls! How's your morning so far?_ No, that wouldn't go. Peter shook himself off, reaching out and pulling the webs down with a pang of sorrow. Something so _pretty_ shouldn't be torn down, but he couldn't exactly let his _uncle_ into his room when it looked like a colony of spiders lived under his arachnophobiac uncle's feet. _So sorry, Uncle Ben, but your worst nightmare is now my bedroom._

He saw two spiders, both blue, gliding through the air on a web that was still attached to their spinnerets, and they landed on his headboard. The webs fell limp afterward, the two turned to face him, watching, as he undid all their hard, frenzied work. Then, on Peter's shoulder, the Queen stirred and brushed against his neck as Peter said, "You can't just cover my _room_ in a giant web. Humans _don't live in webs."_

The spiders did nothing, just watched him as he pulled all the webs down in a frantic frenzy as Uncle Ben reached the door and tried the knob. It was locked, though Peter couldn't remember locking it when he had returned home from the field trip Friday. He tossed the webs in the one empty room in the basement, a makeshift _studio_ Peter rarely used. Then he was ushering the Queen under his hair, hiding her, and the web _still attached to his neck,_ from view.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open, hyperaware of how his uncle was standing. He could _hear_ the coarse fabric rustling over his uncle's skin, could hear the floor creak under his weight as he stepped forward and set a hand on his spider-free shoulder. He could smell the subtle hint of body wash and toothpaste, scents that had only caught his attention if just recently, as in _a few moments ago,_ used.

"I was wondering if you're okay. You've been locked down here since Friday night," Uncle Ben stepped to the side and gestured him up the steps, following on his heels seconds after Peter passed. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as his wrists began to itch, a dull ache building as the skin shifted and pulled and flexed. "May's determined you eat something. She was threatening to come and get you."

Peter didn't even _want_ to imagine Aunt May's reaction to Web Room. "Better you than her."

Uncle Ben chuckled. "Were you busy thinking up a new invention or working on your microbots?"

Peter wasn't entirely sure how to answer, not with the Queen tucked under his ear. He felt the gentle, slick glide of her web against the back of his neck, the hairs still up and quivering – and, _god,_ he was so _aware_ of his uncle and how he was moving and how his _arms_ were swinging – that he took a moment to a moment to answer. Then, as everything fell together, Peter shrugged one shoulder.

"I think I burned myself out, actually," Peter knew keeping as close to the truth was for the best, so he opted for a half-truth. The best lies were the ones lined with slivers of truth. "Finishing the autoaves and working on the bots, the field trip, the last few tests at school and my research…"

When Peter didn't finish, Uncle Ben, moving past him to lead the way to the front room, said, "You burned up all your stores. Did you make yourself sick again, Peter?"

The disapproval in his uncle's voice had his stomach clenching and Peter cast his eyes to the floor. "Yeah."

Peter collapsed on the couch, head dropping onto his aunt's shoulder, and he hummed, happy, when she wrapped her arm around his shoulders. His eyes were half-lidded as he watched a news report on the TV, something about a multi-dimensional gate in Time's Square and the damages caused by the Avengers. _'It isn't the first time,_ ' he mused to himself as he snorted in amusement. When the image of Iron Man being punched through a building by the Hulk, Peter couldn't hold back the surprised laugh.

"They do as much good for the world as they do it harm," Aunt May ran her fingers through his hair, nails scraping his scalp with every pass. Uncle Ben sat on his other side, his arm looping around his shoulders, so he was tucked between the two, as he replied, "They saved us from aliens, May. Granted, the Hulk does tend to smash up the city, but the Avengers are able to calm him down. Sometimes."

Peter snorted again, causing both adults to look at him, to look _down_ at the crown of his head. Knowing they were staring at him, feeling the hairs along his arms rising up in response, Peter swallowed and, after a moment, said, "They handle all the _big_ baddies the universe throws our way, but what about the guys who are local? What about the drug lords and the thugs, the kidnappers of lower- and middle-class citizens? Who takes care of _them_ when the police are too busy trying to clean up the Avengers' messes?"

The thought someone, that _anyone,_ could break through their door, that someone could hurt Aunt May or Uncle Ben, left Peter feeling sick. When Aunt May changed the channel to National Geographic, the tension in his eased as she said, "Then the _next_ superhero that pops up can be a neighborhood hero instead of a hotshot ready to take on the world. The little people need someone to rely on, too."

The documentaries passed for a few hours, Peter's mind far away from the images of nature and all the odd and unusual animals the world has to offer. His thoughts kept shifting to the spider behind his ear, right under his earlobe and hidden by waves of chin-length, brown hair. Hidden but there, Peter aware of where the Queen rested until, finally, he stood and excused himself from the room.

He locked himself in the bathroom, coaching the spider onto his palm and then placing her on the sink as he took hold of the web. When she went still, his gaze fell on her, and he asked, "Can I remove this?"

Her front legs wavered, and Peter muttered, "If that's a _'yes,'_ don't stop what you're doing."

The Queen's legs wavered and shifted more. Exhaling, Peter tightened his grip around the web, feeling the hard line cutting into his palm, and, exhaling, _yanked._ It came away with a loud _'pop,'_ the sound echoing in the bathroom as pain rushed through his body. Peter backpedaled, slamming into the shower and ripping the curtain down as he tried to use it to steady himself. Something _wet_ oozed down the back of his neck, the Queen skittering back-and-forth on the counter as he gasped for breath as he flung out one hand towards the wall in hopes of catching himself

When a massive _web,_ like a _trapper's_ web for _big animals,_ flew across the room and coated the wall, Peter flung himself against the wall. He stuck, several feet off the ground, attached to the hard tiles by his fingers and bare feet. His head was craned at an odd angle, wide eyes focused on the wall with the massive, _wet_ web sticking to it as the Queen spider lifted on her hind legs and started _clicking._

Peter realized he was _on the wall,_ almost on the _ceiling,_ and he closed his eyes. "What did you do to me?"

The Queen clicked again, the sound clear and sharp in his ears. He exhaled. "I can't exactly _calm down_ when I'm _sticking to walls, dammit!"_

She clicked louder, front legs coming down hard. He was talking to a spider. "I'm going crazy."

He let go, falling to the ground and pressing his back to the door. _"I'm going crazy…"_

Peter turned, threw open the door, and rushed into the hallway. When he _felt_ the Queen land on his shoulder, knowing she had _jumped across the bathroom,_ he muttered to himself, "Gotta get out. Fresh air makes things clearer. I'll figure this out. Observe, analyze, _there's a fucking web on the bathroom wall!"_

He turned, returned to the bathroom, and tore the web free with a great deal more difficulty than he had that morning. Once it was gone, he was out the front door and into the streets of New York City, his mind racing as his wrist tingled. He had flung a web _out of his wrist._ A giant web that could _encase a human,_ not a silken thread like a spider. Or maybe it was dozens, if not hundreds, of smaller threads?

Peter turned his wrist over, eyeing the mark on his wrist. Two dark lines, located on either side of the main vein going into his hand, stared back at him. When he passed his fingertips over it, he noticed how they stood out from his skin, a ridge, and watched, stunned, as they shifted and stirred. He felt how deep into his arm they went, could _feel_ them running through his veins as they pulsed.

Spinnerets. He had _spinnerets._ Peter yanked his sleeve over the marks, eyeing the identical markings on his _other_ hand with absurd fascination. Then he glanced between the two sets, sidestepping people on the sidewalk with the same ease as breathing even though he _wasn't_ paying attention. He exhaled. "I have spinnerets. I can shoot webs. I'm a _spider mutant._ Or something. What the hell?"

He took a shortcut, cutting through dark alleyways until he was making his way into a large, woody location in the middle of the city as he processed what had happened. Friday, he and Harry snuck into the Arachnid's Housing Chambers. The spiders started dancing and then they were covered. The Queen got on him and bit him but _didn't_ kill him. Two of the workers also decided to hitchhike on him, though neither, from what he could tell, bit him. The Queen's venom had a rather drastic reaction and now he had spider powers. Peter nodded to himself, making a mental note to write this all down so he could analyze what was going on – as of right now, jotting it down wouldn't be dangerous. No one knew.

The real question, however, was _how_ he was changing. What exactly had the Queen Venom changed him, what would it continue to do? Would it eventually kill him? How was it different from the workers' venom and were there _differences_ in what could be done if the _Bitten_ survived? Were workers even _capable_ of altering the human DNA sequence in the same way the Queen could?

Peter slowed until he was under a tree, drawing in a calming breath even as the sun set.

He could feel the darkness coming, sense it slowly covering the ground and creeping ever-closer to where he stood. Peter sensed the sunlight retreating, moving away from the part of the world he stood on. He could hear the changes in the atmosphere, crickets starting to chirp and sing as the leaves rustled in a gentle, warm breeze. Peter's head tilted back, the fading sunlight washing over his face.

Then the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, his body twisting to the side involuntarily as a flash of peach and dark green swept by. Peter's heart was in his throat as he stepped back, gaze, wide and startled, focused on a man with unkempt hair and yellow teeth. There was a knife in his other hand, the blade gleaming as he bared his teeth at him. Hopefully, he had his rabies shot. Peter didn't fancy getting bit by a rapid human with a knife – if he _was_ bit, would his blood be toxic?

One theory he could test, though not currently. He didn't want to _kill_ the guy.

When the homeless bum swung at him, blade flashing, Peter dunked under the arm and landed on all fours, quickly rolling out of a downward strike and then bounding backward until he was clear. The man was staring at him, blinking. Then the bum rushed him, a feral scream leaving him. Peter swung to the side, his arm snapping out and catching him at the gut. The man doubled over his arm, spit and stomach acid expelled forward even as Peter threw him to the ground.

 _"Really?_ I'm minding my own business and you…what the hell were you trying, anyway?"

The homeless bum stared at him as if he wasn't sure what Peter was saying. Peter looked back at him, arms folded across his chest expectedly. When Yellow Teeth didn't respond, Peter pressed, "If you're going to attack someone, have the courtesy of telling them why. What was your plan? Your big idea? Mug me? Murder me?"

Now the man was staring at him, jaw slack. Then Yellow Teeth grit his _really yellow, rotting_ teeth before lunging at him with what Peter was sure was a battle cry. The teen waited until the last moment until his spider-sense screaming _'DANGER'_ was blaring in his ear and making his skin tingle and his heart race. Then he leaped straight up into the tree, and Peter watched, wide-eyed, as Yellow Teeth slammed face-first into an unforgiving trunk of an old, ancient tree.

He was out like a light, little bags of white powder falling on the ground around him.

Peter leaned forward, balanced perfectly in the tree, and then watched, curious, as the Queen made her way down his arm. Peter watched, raising his hand so he could stare her in the eye, his own green eyes bright under a mop of brown hair. He grinned. "Well, _that_ was kind'a fun. What other little tricks did you give me, Queenie?"

Queenie's third legs rose, then she started dancing.

* * *

 **Author's Note**

I am back! I've been trying to figure this chapter out for a while, and now I have it! I have a few ideas where this will go, on how things will play out, but right now I'm really enjoying Queenie's little dance. Peacock Spider Style! Peter himself, he's an interesting fellow. He's also a bit wound up after waking up to one hell of a sight and learning he's _changed._ And obviously Not-Dead. I'm thrilled by the followers and favs this story has gathered, and I'm hyped over the few reviews I get.

It's those reviews that really push me forward, to be honest. I enjoy hearing what others have to say about my story (and if they agree/disagree with the points or plot I'm crafting). Feedback is a writer's means of becoming a better writer, after all. I hope to hear more from all of you lovely people (we don't have too many SpiderPool stories) and any feedback is welcome. I've never written in this genre before, so this is all very new to me.

And don't worry, Deadpool's on his way. Not the next chapter, but _maybe_ the one after that. Five is a good number.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, so, please: _favorite, follow, and review!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Black Mirror**

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

* * *

Peter was good at a lot of things, though his mind was the greatest tool he possessed.

His creations were a source of pride for him, and it was these creations, his autoanima, that occupied his attention at that very moment. Small machines were everywhere, in his room, and Queenie rested on his shoulder, lax and sleepy and full after vanishing to feed. As he pieced together diagrams of a new creation, a raptor with fangs and a tail to boot, he let his mind whirl and dance around the new things he was learning about him.

Mainly the fact he had _spinnerets_ on both wrists and could shoot webs and cling to walls. The other two spiders rested on his desk, one on the computer tower and the other on the monitor, both watching him as he worked. Their limbs would flutter and move every time he grabbed a new piece of the machine, and he would have been flattered by the intense _focus_ they were displaying if it wasn't a tad… _creepy._

Not that Peter _minded_ creepy critters. He liked spiders. They were interesting little things, so beneficial and beautiful even when they were deadly. Queenie stirred, front limbs rising to brush his earlobe, and he stilled. Setting a cog to the side, he lifted his hand and waited for her to crawl over his fingers to rest on the back of his hand. He moved her to the tower, watching as she moved to rest on the warm surface as it hummed with latent energy.

Harry should be bringing him the new computer from Oscorp. He wasn't sure when, though he knew the older boy would have it for him by the end of the week. Maybe some new metal and cogs and gears that had been in the room, too. That'd be _great,_ now that Peter thought about it. His gaze jumped to the other diagram, something complicated and difficult but within his realm to complete – a 3D Printer, one which was tied into a complex computer system where he could design freely and with fewer hiccups.

His microbots would be easier to construct, their programming tied into the Printer. He traced the diagram with loving fingers, stilling when he heard the topmost step to the basement creak. The spiders were gone when he turned to shoo them away, though he _sensed_ them slinking along the underside of his desk. He spun in his chair, the world spinning as the steps creaked and groaned before the door opened.

Aunt May stood upon the threshold, gaze sweeping over his room. "You've cleaned up, I see."

He had, though the spiders were at fault. Everything had been sticky from the webs. A deep clean had been necessary. The floor was clear, for the first time in months. Dozens of plastic crates were filled with different metals and machine parts. One was filled with spent batteries, too weak to supply the autoanima with sufficient power. Another crate, next to his crafting table that could be seen through the door on the other end of the room, was filled with wires and cables.

Peter had also moved his bed to a different room, one behind a closed door that couldn't be seen when the basement door opened. Now the main room in the basement was more of a _living area,_ as far as Peter was concerned. His couches, which had been crammed in the corner and covered with too many boxes to ever be used, were clear and useable. He had moved a TV stand to stand adjacent to them, though he had yet to find a working television he could put on it.

On the far side of the room, he had a miniature kitchen set up that had been neglected for a long time.

His aunt was eyeing that small space, moving over to the _kitchen_ to run her hands over the counter. She let out an approving hum as she said, "The basement hasn't been _this_ clean in years. Have you cleared landing to the backyard yet, or is that lost in the dangers of your space?"

Peter glanced over at her. "It's hidden behind that curtain, by my newly created living area."

Aunt May made her way to the basement's version of a front room, walking past the couch that also acted as a divider to the curtained wall. She pulled it open, exposing the glass doors. When it opened, a cool, evening breeze rolled through the room. When she looked over at him, a smile spreading across her face, he felt his cheeks heat. Then she said, "You washed the doors! Who are you and where's my nephew?"

Peter scowled. "I clean, okay? Sometimes."

Then Uncle Ben was there, whistling. "Talk about a new place! When did we build a house under our house, May? I don't remember this being here!"

Both adults laughed, and Peter watched as Uncle Ben wrapped his arms around May's waist. He looked away as they shared a kiss, fingers tapping away at his keyboard. He wasn't _typing_ anything, just moving as a sense of restless filled him. He could _hear_ their clothing whisper against their skin, the sound of lips caressing and the sound of his aunt's heartbeat accelerating.

Clearing his throat, Peter stood up. "Was there something you wanted?"

They turned to him, Aunt May's eyes softening. "I was getting ready to make dinner. You hungry?"

He was starving. He also ate an hour ago, something he knew both were aware of. Swallowing, he offered a soft smile as he said, "Not at the moment, no. Set aside my share and I'll eat it in the morning."

Aunt May nodded and made her way upstairs, though Uncle Ben stayed. Once they were alone, his uncle sat a hand on his shoulder as he asked, "Everything okay, Peter?"

Peter considered the question before answering, "Actually, I was wondering if you have any spare journals I could use. Mine are almost full."

After a bit, his uncle vanished back upstairs with a promise to hunt him down a notebook. Peter turned to watch his spiders crawl out of hiding, those the metal ones remained in plain sight. Still but observant, learning from the living creatures as surely as Queenie and her works learned from them. Peter crossed the room to the glass doors, staring out into the darkening backyard. He grabbed the curtains and shut out the light, throwing the room back into a state of shadows and darkness.

…oOoOoOo…

"Peter!"

The lanky teenager jumped when thin arms flung themselves around his neck, his heart racing as his own arms came up and wrapped around MJ's body. Her hoodie was rough beneath his fingertips, the fabric sticking to his skin. Swallowing, he pulled away, keeping his hands on her waist as he willed the sharp, tiny hairs all over his body to _relax,_ and offered a sharp smile.

"Morning, MJ. Nice greeting," He dropped his hands, relieved to see her hoodie didn't try to follow.

Ned and Harry were making their way over, Harry's gaze sharp and calculating. Peter let both boys pull him into a side-hug, relishing in the heat each of his friends gave off. Then Harry was slinging an arm over his shoulder, drawing him into his side as he said, "You didn't call, Pete. Did something happen?"

Peter felt a cold wave of _something_ wash over him as Harry's gaze swept over him. "Nothing happened, not really. I was tired. Uncle Ben said I cooped myself up in the lab for too long."

Ned and MJ laughed, agreeing with his Uncle's assessment, but Harry didn't. There wasn't a hint of a smile on his face, his gaze hard and unyielding. The four of them were already making their way to their spot under a tree out back, none of them wanting to go inside just yet. Harry's grip tightened on his shoulders when Peter tried to move away, voice low as he murmured, "We both know that's bullshit, Pete."

Peter wanted to crawl under a rock and never come out. "I'm fine. I wasn't sick."

Once they sat down, Harry frowned. "You were supposed to call _all_ of us. We had a lunch date at the cafe, remember? We were worried when you didn't show up."

 _'Shit, I forgot about that,'_ Peter ran a hand through his hair, glasses nearly slipping off his face as he drew in a shallow breath through his nose. Seeing the serious expression on _all_ their faces, Peter knew the conversation went from light to _serious._ All because he _never_ missed their lunch dates. Leaning back, tucked against Harry's side, Peter said, "I'm fine, guys. Just a bit shaken up."

"Shaken up? About _what?"_ MJ was leaning forward, eyes wide.

Peter saw the sharp look in her gaze, knew she assumed something _bad_ had happened. It was something Peter could work with, an excuse already rising as he said, "I passed out, Friday night. Nothing to worry about! Then, _last night,_ some homeless guy tried to mug me."

"Someone tried to _mug_ you?" Ned was all wide eyes and disbelief.

Harry was all tension and hard lines. "You were sick Friday…and someone attacked you last night?"

The _'what about Saturday'_ hung unsaid, and Peter ran a hand through his hair. "I slept through Saturday, actually. I haven't been resting like I should. I've been working on getting the autoanima finished. Aunt May and Uncle Ben have been… _arguing,_ too."

The last wasn't a point he wanted to mention, but he knew he had their attention, _all_ of their attention, at that last comment. The three _knew_ he didn't do well when people started fighting, that the yelling and the arguing often sent him into a fit where he couldn't _function_ properly. Hence why he _lived in a basement,_ really. There was a room he could use upstairs, a bedroom furnished when Aunt May first took him in as a babe, but she had put him in the basement when he would start screaming every night.

Peter preferred the basement and its silence and his ability to pursue his interests without some kind of unwanted, unwelcome intrusion. He had _privacy,_ down in the basement. Then his thoughts shifted to Aunt May and Uncle Ben, to the times where they were _happy_ in front of him. There was a tension, though.

He noticed it on the off occasion, before his _mutation._ Now, with his hearing amped up and his senses keener than ever (and, _god,_ didn't that suck?), he could hear the faint arguments as if they were in the room with him. Drawing one knee to his chest, focusing on the warmth spanning along his left side, Peter exhaled. The worst of it, really, was how each argument seemed to _center_ around him.

"Last night, Aunt May and Uncle Ben were fighting over a few bills," It had been long after midnight, when the two thought he had been in bed. He tried not to think about it, but now he felt the pressure in his chest and how the back of his eyes burned. He bit into pointer finger, gathering his thoughts as Harry eased the abused finger from cruel teeth. Exhaling, Peter said, "The last few times I've been in the hospital, my insurance was denied. Aunt May's _pissed._ She was demanding to know where the money went, but Uncle Ben keeps saying he doesn't know."

His doctor tried to get him to talk about the tension underlining the peaceful currents in his home, but Peter wasn't _willing_ to talk about that with someone he saw only once or twice a week. He didn't want to see the man Wednesday, either. There wasn't a choice, though. Peter knew that as well as his friends, but nothing any of them said could change the need for a _psychologist_ and a constant state of _observation._

Peter pretended those doctors didn't exist, that his aunt and uncle didn't fight, that he wasn't _struggling_ with all the overloads his senses underwent, until moments like this. Harry squeezed his shoulder and Peter drew in a breath before saying, "They're wanting me to take dual-credits. Or start a few college courses early. He said I'm not _challenged enough,_ that I need something to keep me occupaid."

 _"What?"_ MJ was staring, jaw slack. "You're going to go to college _while in high school?"_

Peter nodded, unable to say anything further now that _half_ the issues he refused to think about were out in the open. He was smart, yes, but he was _tired._ He didn't understand these issues, didn't know what to think or what to do. He was bored in school because nothing the teachers did challenged him. He also didn't want to go to college, had no desire to slide through _more_ years in sheer boredom for a degree he could obtain with ease without all those years slaving over stupid, useless worksheets.

MJ and Ned crawled over to him, Ned tucking into his other side while MJ slumped against his chest in a sideways curl, her head under his chin. The four of them stayed like that even after the bell rung, Peter's eyes clenched shut as his ears rang and his skin crawled and the wind cut into his flesh. He talked, words spilling out once the gate was opened, and he couldn't seem to stop.

"I don't even know _how_ Uncle Ben is getting me the parts he does. They're _expensive,"_ Peter was saying as he pulled out the microbot in his pocket, admiration in his gaze as he eyed the tiny machine. He could feel it humming against his skin as he said, "It takes a lot of parts and tools to make something like this, and the programming isn't an easy thing giving the age of my computer. Half the time, it freezes."

There was also the fact his creations attacked him in the beginning stages because he had to constantly tune their servos. When the feedback didn't say "do not attack creator," Peter often found himself cut up by sharp talons and angry beaks. Or bitten by tiny, sharp little fangs. Another good reason to be in the basement. He doubted his aunt and uncle would take kindly to being mauled by machines.

It could be downright terrifying.

Getting faulty parts wasn't fun. The machines he built pointed out what they needed, but they couldn't tell a good part from a bad one, not in the beginning stages. He could generally tell if something worked or not, but when he was sleep deprived, the signals got jammed. There were a few machines he needed to tune, now that he thought about it.

Fishing around in his backpack for his journal, he continued, "But, yeah, I'm going to be attending courses at a local college. The classes start in a few weeks, actually. Aunt May talked Uncle Ben into me doing only _one_ course the first semester – _Essential Statics_ , as it is. Should be interesting enough."

He already had the book ordered and it would be in the mail in the next few days. Peter wasn't quite sure what he thought about taking _another_ class on top of the six he already had. He wasn't fond of the idea of trying to juggle his _studies_ on top of his _spider issues._ Then there were his creations, all of them clamoring for the right to be built _first,_ and they could be so _bitchy_ about it.

It was hard to sleep, sometimes, but now that his hearing was enhanced…sleeping seemed like something that wouldn't happen for a long while. MJ helped him pull his journal out, shifting so he could open it and pen down a few notes that were spiraling through his head. Once the notes were down, she settled back in place as she said, "So college, finical embarrassment, and a _lot_ of stress. No wonder you crashed. Why didn't you tell us?"

"I didn't want to worry any of you," Peter admitted as he inhaled the mingling scents of his friends, his eyes half-lidded as the bell rang. None of them got up. He didn't like talking about his issues, about the troubles happening within the Parker Household, but he knew saying _something_ was better than bottling it up. Glancing towards the sky, he murmured, "There's nothing that can be done. I'd rather ignore it, for the time being. Get a job. Help pay the bills. That's better than worrying over the _'what ifs.'"_

They stayed under the tree long after the first class of the day started. They left as the second started, all of them climbing into Harry's car and driving through the busy streets of the city. Peter rolled the single microbot he carried on him that day twirl between his fingers, rolling it between the pads of each digit.

When they drove into the residential area where Peter lived, he couldn't stop the smile from spreading.

Once they were at his house and tucked into the basement "apartment" Peter occupied, his aunt and uncle gone for the day, Peter collapsed on his couch. His bedroom door was cracked open; he knew Queenie and her workers (he _really_ needed a name for those two) were nearby, watching them. Did they recognize Harry, since the older boy was with him when the three of them hitched a ride on Peter during their daring escape? He wouldn't be surprised if they did.

They were intelligent, able to make connections about their environment and respond to the things they learned in a future-thinking pattern. He was glad they weren't throwing webs all over his room. As he rested on the couch, fingers ghosting over the spinnerets on his wrist, he watched as MJ cooed over how he redecorated his space.

"Now it _really_ looks like a house!" She was over in the kitchen, looking through his half-empty refrigerator with a lot more interest than what would be considered appropriate. When she came back with four sodas, Peter was more than willing to overlook the unspoken transgression. "You cleaned this up nicely, Peter. What's the special occasion?"

"I found a dead rat in the back room," Peter deadpanned, expression flat.

Ned looked away from his drink, slightly green. "Tell me you're joking, Peter. _Please."_

He was joking, but where was the fun in turning off the game? Peter leaned back, the couch seemingly embracing him, and he eyed his friend for a long moment. Taking another drink, swirling the liquid around in his mouth, he considered his approach. Then he swallowed, and then said, "Not at all. I'd let the door to the backyard opened, so it likely came in from outside. Aunt May or Uncle Ben don't take time to tame that part of the property. The only way out there is through _my_ home. An overgrown yard and an open door are what many would call an invitation. Thankfully it was a _metal_ invitation."

He left for his workshop, his friends following him in. MJ shrieking as one of the metal birds swooped through the air and the resident cat yowled at them. His microbots rested in a glass container on the shelf built into the far wall, each of them clicking against the clear, glass container. Behind him, Ned whistled.

"You're a mad genius, Peter. No doubt about it," the others laughed at the comment, but Peter felt the statement to be true. No one else he knew built things like he did, and when one of the birds came down to land on his shoulder, he was content to let that dangerous beak nibble at his hair. When he spied the large boy making his way towards his bookcase, he knew what was coming even as Ned said, "Look at all of these _books,_ though! _Lord of the Rings_? Didn't take you for a fan, Peter."

Peter turned to see the three of them looking through his vast collection. "I do enjoy a good fantasy."

Lord of the Rings had a lot of details in it, small things that bothered most people in their generation. It was these details he enjoyed, knowing someone had thought out the details of a fake world to the point it could be painted in the mind's eye was worthy of a mark of respect. A great deal of _Lord of the Rings_ , and the _Hobbit_ , were based off actual Norse and Saxon belief systems. Gandalf, for one, was a reimaging of the god Odin (known as _Woden or Wotan_ to the Saxons). Taking things that existed in _history,_ things which once _could_ have existed, and remaking them to connected with a younger, newer generation was a stroke of genius that would carry through the centuries.

A few of his spiders scuttled across the ground, sweeping between his friends' feet. MJ squealed, dancing around them. Peter was tempted to laugh, his gaze lighter and bright green as Ned and Harry snorted with amusement – until Ned screamed like a girl when one started climbing up his leg, hopping around on one foot as he cried, _"Get it off, get it off, get it off!"_

Harry plucked it off with ease, letting the machine crawl over his body as he said, "So you found a way where they can cling to the walls like actual spiders?"

Peter offered a rare, genuine smile. "Yeah, I did. I got the idea, actually, from the trip to Oscorp."

When they were all sitting somewhere free of spiders, Peter continued, "I added a value into their limbs, one that produces a synthetic fluid. I added a smaller, acidic…eh, I just made fake webs. I'm working on making another version that's self-refilling, some kind of _recharge_ center, that I can put in their limbs."

"…okay," MJ cleared her throat, then smiled. There was an awkward silence as Ned and Harry both stared him down, one with amusement and the other with awe. MJ drew his attention as she said, "That's…cool, I think. Didn't really understand a word of it, but still cool. Cool."

Peter shrugged, not caring the least that they didn't understand. "I'm working on a few blueprints for an autocanine, to match the autofeline I made Aunt May. Maybe an autocraniate. You _do_ have a habit of killing all your fish, MJ. This could be the solution."

"What?"

"Autocraniate. Auto- _fish,"_ Peter watched as she puffed up at his words, his grin spreading.

He handed her a few blueprints of the creature in question, then some others to both Harry and Ned, and let them surf through his books on his ideas for his creations. He turned to the _other_ journal he was interested in, opening it to eye the notes about his _mutation,_ and pondered his next move.

He needed to _understand_ the changes he was going through, but he couldn't just go out and shoot webs and do things _normal_ people couldn't do. He didn't want anyone to _recognize_ him – he'd seen enough horror stories on the news about young mutants being abducted, killed, or _missing_ to know that a disguise was necessary for his _exploits_. How was he going to _hide himself,_ though?

It wasn't like he had a mask hanging around or a skintight suit. He didn't even _want_ a skintight suit. He could barely stand his _jeans,_ most days. His newer pairs hadn't been reformatted, the insides of them all hard material – Aunt May often split them open and added a thin, breathable layer of _silk-like_ material that didn't irritate his skin. He could wear one of the _closer-fitting_ pairs; the black ones, he decided.

They fit well, they were flexible (a rare fabric Aunt May had gotten from a friend at the hospital with the 'order more if he likes them' attitude – he did, they were just _too_ expensive), and they were _tough_ on the outside. Not easy to rip. He had no idea what kind of fiber they were made out of, but he generally only wore them on special occasions. Going around the city shooting webs was special enough for him.

As he contemplated the _rest_ of the wardrobe, Harry said, "You're going to make a raptor?"

Peter glanced up from his journal, a rough outline of his _'suit'_ starting to come together as he went over a mental checklist of clothing and accessories in the house. Peter noted that Harry's gaze wasn't on the blueprints in his hands. It was focused on the blueprints above the crafting table, his eyes wide. Peter blinked, turning to eye the diagram and the carefully drawn closeups before turning back to his friend.

"Yeah, I am. I liked _Jurassic Park_ as a kid and I'm a fan of _Jurassic World,"_ Peter shrugged, not really caring about what his friend thought about his interest dinosaurs as he added, voice light, "I thought it a good idea to make something I enjoy, personally. Like my spiders. It'll be a small raptor, though. Nothing large or scary, so don't get worked up."

Once his friends left the evening, none of them having said much after going through his massive stack of upcoming projects, all of them working through the details in their own heads, Peter turned to the outfit resting on paper – black, skinny jeans; a sleeves, red, high-collar, soft-fabric shirt that clings like a second skin (one he got for his birthday but never wore because, _really,_ where would he wear it _to?); a black_ vest to go over the high-collar; his rarely used combat boots (black); and a red, _blood_ red, hooded, trench coat that was stashed away in his workshop's closet that belonged to _whoever_ had lived in this building before his aunt and uncle bought it. Black and red – well, the _vest_ and _jeans_ were a dark, navy-black. But he'd just say they were black. Made more sense that way.

It didn't take him long to hunt down each item, laying them out on his bed once he gathered them.

It looked pretty badass, but there was still _one_ tiny issue – his face would be seen.

Peter scowled. How the _hell_ was he supposed to go running and leaping through the city if he couldn't hide his _face?_ When he heard the whisper of spider legs on the walls, heard Queenie's soft clicking from the workshop, Peter went to investigate. When he entered the room, he was surprised to see one of his "failed" boxes on the floor. Parts he tried to create but didn't quite work out – he blinked as he eyed the box in question, then eyed the spider on the floor next to it.

"What is it, Queenie?"

She clicked, dancing in place. Shaking his head, he crouched and, when he lifted the lid, he blinked. There, setting on top of a bunch of misshapen pieces of metal and ceramics, was an oblong, domed surface without form or shape. He picked it up, turning it in his hands, marveling at the smooth texture.

What had he tried to create that _this_ was part of it? His mind backtracked, whisking through countless memories until it settled on one – a science project, some kind of mini building project. He wanted to build a cathedral for his aunt, as she found them beautiful, but the size had turned out wrong for the rest of the structure. Too small. As he turned it over in his hands, he realized how that could fall into his favor.

Peter lifted the oblong shape up to his face, exhaling in relief as the cool surface seemed to conform to the planes of his face. It was cool, like spring water, and there wasn't a jagged or uneven bend when pressed against his skin. It was almost perfect, he realized.

It was that moment when he suddenly realized he didn't to _find_ a mask.

He simply had to make one, starting with something that had once been classified as a failure.

* * *

 **Author's Note**

I have _finally_ updated! I wasn't sure how I wanted to go with this chapter and I rewrote it about a dozen times. I finally settled for this, more than happy with how it's building. The story is a slow build, considering there's a lot to build on. This chapter hints at quite a lot of issues, some of them _hinted_ at in an abstract way. I have a clear picture of who _Peter_ is in my head, and a lot of the issues he has _outside_ of mutant-spider-powers are ones that aren't so easily understood. A few of them I'm going through myself (though I wish I had his memory - getting through a tough math course would be so _easy_ if I was as smart as him), and I found that it fit to tie them into Peter's story as well.

Now, to jump to my few comments!

Dementra

I know there are good SpideyPool stories on the web, though the best ones I've found tend to be _here,_ on this lovely sight. I do understand your input about the category, though the stories I've read in the _other_ categories don't really suit my tastes. The ones I've read in _this_ category, on the other hand. I like them. A lot. Too much, actually, because a few of them I've read _at least_ a hundred times. Shameless, I know. I am glad you have me on _Alert_ because I do love someone who likes what I write. I do hope you're enjoying the story, even now!

Mss-May-Hem

While I haven't heard from you since Chapter One, I am happy you enjoyed the first chapter. The entire 'Harry&Peter' is intentional, on my end. The way they interact and respond to one another, the way they connect, the emotions between them, the way it fits is part of the story. I won't say much because I don't want to accidentally give anything away. I'm looking forward to seeing what you'll think once Deadpool's introduced - will you root for Harry or for Wade?

Finniboi

The 'black mirror' will play a major part in this, but it hasn't come into play just yet. Nor will it for a while, I'd dare say. I do love the poem you dropped. Catching thieves like flies. That's accurate. Just like making muggers into tree huggers. Hope to hear from you soon!

ElementalFoxGoddess

Yeah, I gave Peter _actual_ spider powers. That was a big no-no for me, too. He was bitten by a radioactive, mutant-made spider. He should have more _spider_ traits than being able to climb on fucking walls. Oblivious Peter _is_ a cute Peter, no? Still oblivious. I'd say his mind is more on the _rational_ side of things than emotional, wouldn't you?

Oliviajk42

I tend to have my own spin on _everything_ I write. I did want a different way for him to get his powers, on the buildup, and I couldn't resist keeping Queenie.

I think that covers everything. I felt like a few words to the select few who read this are in order, given the encouragement I get from what you have said. I'm not one to typically _respond_ to comments, but today I felt it was a good idea. Why? No idea. I'm not going to question my brain in this matter. I know better.

Anyway, Peter's "Spider Suit" is in the making. I also wanted to go a _different_ route with that, too, because Peter isn't like the _other_ Peter Parkers in the fandom. He is my _own_ Peter Parker, full of quirks and twists and ideas. He's also _sensative_ in a lot of ways, which is hinted in this chapter. I do like to know what everyone thinks, of course, and I love that all of you who are reading this are still with me. Let's all keep up the good work and keep pressing forward!

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, so, please: _favorite, follow, and review!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Black Mirror**

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

* * *

Peter spent the next week working on the mask for his suit, hair tied back and goggles in place.

When he wasn't upstairs with Uncle Ben and Aunt May, or at school or with his friends, he was tucked in the Workshop with Queenie, her helpers, and his machines. He painted the mask black, with a metallic paint, and coated it with resin-based topcoat. After it dried, he used a pre-made stencil of spider webs along the top, right corner of the mask, having the intricate details swoop along the side of the mask.

As he sat in his chair, mask in hand (altered so he could see _through_ it, but no one could see his face from the outside – like the privacy windows on many high-end cars), Peter couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face. He was already in his suit, clothing soft and silk-like against his skin, trench coat open and hood down, and, in his hands, nestled between fingers clad in black gloves, was the mask.

When it slipped it on and stood in front of his mirror, he couldn't deny there was something… _creepy_ about the way he looked. The deep, red trench coat floated around him. Spiders, machinal and organic, crawled over the suit. He looked like something out of a horror movie. Or a horror game. He looked like the bad guy with this getup, someone dangerous and edgy.

With the lower half of the mask obscured by the high collar of his shirt, the loose material fitting closer than normal with the vest over it, Peter was confident _no one_ would recognize him outside. He grabbed a notepad from the table, eyeing all the lines of text – trials to run, ideas for gear (an internal visor on the inside of his mask for the microbots, once he had them synced to the neurocranial transmitter), an idea for a portable, a new device in blueprints based off the Omni-Tool from _Mass Effect_ , and a few blank pages for notes. Peter pulled his hood up, striding across his living space in the basement of his aunt and uncle's home to the sliding doors leading to the wild, untamed, backyard.

A backyard no one had been in for a long time, Peter mused as he opened the door. Vines hung before the door, the once-stone patio cracked and broken. The few trees he spotted were covered in vines and moss, the long, hanging appendages swaying in the late-night breeze. A herd of machines exited the building, a few birds taking flight to land in the tree as the ground crawled with black, eight-legged, gleaming spiders. Peter smiled behind his mask.

He stepped into the city jungle that was his backyard, closing the door behind himself. He left it cracked, so the machines could get back inside and took a deep breath. Queen's glowing, slender body was crawling on a tree, her two workers trailing after her. They stopped on a branch high off the ground, pulsing where they rested. Peter knew it was their way of issuing the first _test_ he was to undergo.

Peter shifted his weight from one leg to another, remembering how he had _bounded_ into a tree last week when the mugger came at him. Cat-like reflexes, impossibly high jumps. At the moment, his body _felt_ normal, but the power coursing through his veins was unmistakable. His skin was starting to tingle, crawling and alive with an energy that had never been present until recent. He was losing weight, layers of soft and pudgy skin pulling inward to form around slowly-hardening muscles.

With a sharp exhale, Peter darted forward. His mind focused on _obstacles_ in the yard, large and broken stumps sticking up out of the ground. His body moved, fluid and quick, and then he was _ascending_. His booted feet landed, light and agile, on the stump. Then he was pushing away, energy coiling and snapping through his legs until his feet hit the tree and his hands curled around the branch the spiders danced on.

Pulling himself up was a war all on its own, his arms not as strong as they should be. He could feel the muscles, though. As he hauled himself up, he _felt_ the muscles flexing and stretching, felt the energy pooling into them. Crotched on the branch, balanced on hands and feet, knees bent and weight centered, Peter swept his gaze over the rest of the area.

Twisting, his gaze shifted his aunt and uncle's house. His smile spread.

Leaping and bounding through the trees, using the thick branches as platforms, Peter threw himself forward. He sailed through the air, landing nimbly on the edge of the roof. He pinwheeled, gaining his balance as his spiders landed around him. Queenie was on his arm, skittering to the inside of his wrist. She danced, tapping the spinnerets under his skin. They shuddered at the light caress.

Peter frowned. He didn't know how they _worked,_ yet. Shooting webs on his aunt's _roof_ didn't seem like a good idea. His guardians were okay with machines, but if they found _actual_ webs, massive and large and alarmingly tough, Peter knew getting out and _learning_ would be next to impossible. When Queenie tapped on the upraised spinners, Peter sighed.

He scaled the roof, the steep slope navigated as moved. Standing on the top, he could see a bit of the surrounding neighborhood. In the distant north, he saw the tower Harry and his father lived in. Off to the east, Ned's house resided. The west, MJ. Peter was in the south, and the area he lived in was peaceful more often than not. Mugger aside. He didn't want to _practice_ near his home, though.

Peter twisted his wrist, eying the dark, upraised marks on either side of the large, prominent vein in his wrist. He focused on the way it felt under his skin, how he could feel the duck the webs were in, liquid and tingling, in his arms and then spreading throughout his body. He held his arm out, palm flat and straight.

He tried to remember how he had used it in the bathroom. There had been panic, he knew.

Peter's lips pressed into a thin line. There was really only one way he could think to induce panic, to make the spinnerets active. He eyed the distance to the ground, vision spinning. Nope. Nope, he didn't want to jump. God, he really wasn't all that fond of heights. They were _okay,_ but he preferred to avoid situations that could be detrimental to his health. He wasn't an all-powerful hero with super-enhanced healing.

It was the only way. Swallowing, Peter edged away from the middle of the room.

He just…had to do it.

With a sharp inhale, he raced forward and _jumped_.

The initial jump has his heart in his throat. His body sailed through the air, featherlight. Weightless. His world slowed, his mind focusing on his surroundings. Distances were mapped out, places to land popping up into his awareness. Then the insides of his body _hummed,_ his wrists thrumming. Queen was on his shoulder, small and there and glowing. As Peter's body twisted, one arm snapping out, wrist aimed at a distant rooftop, he _felt_ the spinnerets tighten.

They contracted, heat surging through his forearms. Then the web was spiraling through the air, a thick rope of white-silver substance that gleaned and sparkled as moonlight brushed over it. He felt the liquid substance surging through his arm, felt the spinnerets _twisting it,_ hardening it, felt it flex under his skin as if some kind of organic _shield_ was forming under his skin.

The robe-web slammed into the roof. When Peter dropped, it snapped taut. He whipped out to the side, a scream caught in his throat as his feet grazed the ground. Then he was going up, rocketing into the night, and Peter felt the web come undone. As he hit the zenith, hovering for a moment, he felt gravity clutch at him. Felt himself pulled back down. Another building sprang up in his mind's eye.

Peter twisted, a coiled, silken rope springing forth, anchoring him. Then he was flying.

It took hardly any time to reach the main part of the city, his body high up in the air as he swung between the buildings. His arms burned from the effort of the activity, a real workout that had his muscles shifting and aching as he shot web after web.

He launched himself through the air, catching himself on a sky scrapper's metal antenna. He caught his breath, gaze wide behind his mask as he eyed a city that never truly slept. From this height, the roar of noise below was duller. He could hear the blaring scream of horns, the soft chatter of conversations, the echoing hum of the cellphones. He could almost _feel_ the invisible electricity zapping through the air, could sense it jumping from tower to tower as it followed the powerlines weaved through the city.

Peter jumped to the roof, making his way to the edge. He stood there for a time, head tilted back as the wind curled around him. His spiders crawled on his legs and torso, their thin, metal limbs ghosting over his body as the three living ones rested on his shoulder and neck.

He pulled out the notebook he carried in his back pocket, jotting down notes. Most were on the webs he slung out, on their thickness and how far he'd been able to launch them. He took note of his heightened senses, on how he felt the liquid web running _under_ his skin outside of the spinnerets ducks. Some kind of defense, he realized. He also noted how he no longer needed glasses, though the use of them didn't bother his eyes as they would have should have. He knew someone with good eyesight shouldn't try and wear prescription eyeglasses – it often resulted in feeling ill and headaches.

And what was happening to him, physically? The loss of weight, the rapid altering of his muscles, it wasn't normal. Was Queenie's venom capable of more than what was happening? Would it continue to change him in some way? His hunger was intense, never lessening. If the effects of the mutation were slowing, his hunger, by all rationality, would also lessen. Growth spurts often resulted in increased appetite, after all, and what was happening wasn't _too_ different in theory.

He sat down on the ledge, legs hanging in open air. He flipped to the Omnitool he was creating, to the blueprints he had for it. Perhaps he could have it multi-purpose. A computer, an enhancer, a weapon (if he needed to defend himself – he had always wanted a lightsaber, anyway), a scanner, perhaps something that could help with the spinnerets…

A scanner would help him hunt down metals, would lessen the strain Uncle Ben was under. The man never said anything about how he _acquired_ the metal, the wires and gears and odds, and ends Peter needed, but Peter saw the exhaustion. His aunt and uncle argued, sometimes. Then there was his upcoming appointment with his shrink (it was tomorrow, having been rescheduled), something he wasn't looking forward to. He didn't like talking to those people. They didn't _understand_ him. Now he was changing.

Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

Spiritually, if he believed in shit like that.

Peter held up a hand and a large, metal eagle landed on the offered perch. He could connect all his machines to the neurocranial transmitter, once he had it working. Though having it as a visor wasn't a good idea. It would be too big. Too easily noticeable. Peter pursed his lips, considering.

He drew up a few diagrams as he rested, one leg tucked up as the other hang lose. He could attach it around the ear, like a hearing aid. It would be hidden, that way, and he could always wear it. He could attach it to the side of the head, a small disk no larger than his pinky nail – an option that would require _bolting_ in place, a process that would undoubtedly be painful. He wouldn't need cuff-links or anything with how his _mind_ would be the force behind the controls…but perhaps he could add a diagnostics program into the Omnitool to keep an eye on the autoanima and the blueprints for the upcoming creations. His lips quirked into a smirk as he jotted down the revised plans, standing to stretch.

Pocketing the journal, ensuring it was safe and tucked away, Peter ran and leaped off the roof. The fear he held, it nudged the back of his mind, but the adrenaline swept it away. Peter let himself fall forward, at an angle, arms to his sides. His heart was pounding, stomach clenching, skin hardening _(he was right!)_

Then he shifted, web-rope flying out. He snapped up into the sky, each bounding rope sending him higher and higher as he spiraled upward. He could feel the exhaustion creeping up on him, saw the horizon starting to lighten. He needed to get home. Soon. If his aunt and uncle came into the basement and he wasn't there, they'd freak.

Hitting the side of a building feet-first, Peter cast his gaze over the city. Changing direction, he made his way south. It wouldn't take too long to get home. As he soared up into the air, eager to dive, he felt a shift in his body – a sort of _switch_ that was flipped when the webs didn't pool into his wrist as fast as they would usually. Peter's heart skipped a beat, eyes widening as his gaze swept over the city below him.

When he plummeted, the web he tried to shoot was loose and soft.

Limitations, then. There were limitations, likely a result of the mutation he was still undergoing, or he only had so much within his own body. He could feel the tired drag of his eyes, could feel the energy of the city rising as he closed in on it. As he _fell_ towards it. When he shot a web between two buildings held close together, it broke under his weight.

He was coming down, fast and hard, the few webs he shot not solid enough to slow him. They shred under his weight, slipping from his clothing like water. The ground was coming up, fast. There was also something _red_ down there. On the walls, on the ground. Then there was another red blot. It wasn't stationary. It was pacing, making jerky movements (yelling? Peter couldn't hear anything over the roar of wind in his ears) as it paced. Unaware of the danger advancing, and Peter realized the blot was a person.

This person paused and looked around itself.

In a moment of clarity, Peter realized something rather morbid.

He was going to _kill_ some poor, unfortunate stranger by _landing_ on them.

When the walls of the building whisked by, the red-clad stranger looked up at the right moment. Moments before Peter's body slammed into a broad chest, sending them _both_ to the ground, the remaining liquid-webs in his body pooled under his skin and hardened. The impact sounded like two boulders slamming together, a resounding boom that left Peter winded. He wasn't expecting to feel arms winding around him, nor was he wasn't expecting to roll across the ground. As they skipped over the concrete ground, _swords_ left behind them, Peter felt each impact. There was going to be bruises.

He didn't expect to wind up on top, adrenaline coursing through him, of what appeared to be a killer.

Peter's knees were tucked under leather-clad armpits. He was aware of large hands gripping his hips, aware of the broad chest he was resting on. His own hands, pressed against warm and wet leather below a red-clad neck, trembling as the adrenaline pulsed through his body. He had _fallen_ over a hundred feet.

He was _alive!_ A fall from that height…and _he was alive…_

A low, rumbling laugh cut through his body – not his own laugh, much too deep for him and his youthful being, but the man he had landed on. Strong hands swept over his hips, curling around his backside and squeezing. The action slid him forward, Peter's hands shifting from the chest of the man to the hard, concrete ground on either side of a face masked in red and black.

"Oh, _darling,_ if you wanted a bit of fun, you only had to ask," The voice was deep, seductive, and the fingers on his backside curled inward, pressing at the seam of his jeans. Pressing along the crack, digging in, squeezing, as Peter's eyes widened. His jaw dropped as the _Mask_ sat up, Peter landing in a hard lap, hands biting into broad shoulders, as the Mask murmured, "I'll rock your fucking world, sweetie. First, though, I _really_ need to finish my contract. Then we can tal –"

Peter's feet had come inward, over the man's knees, and then slammed into the very edges of the man's chest. The Mask was propelled backward with enough force to slam him into the brick wall above the man trapped to the wall with a dozen knives through his body. The stones cracked, caving _inward,_ and Peter watched, gapping, as parts of the wall crumbled and fell to the ground.

The Mask hit the ground face-first, groaning. _"Bloody_ fucking _hell!"_

Peter was up on his feet, shaking his head. He took a step, body pitching to the side. Then he caught himself on the wall, limbs trembling. When a blur of _red_ came at him, his body twisted and snapped to the side like a dancer bounding away. His arm snapped up, blocking the arm that swung at him. He ducked under the blade that followed, heart hammering in his chest as the Mask laughed. "Oh, _honey,_ you shouldn't have _done that!_ Power plays come _after_ the first round of sex."

He twisted under the Mask's reaching arm, nearly screaming when a hand snagged the back of his coat and hurled him into the wall. A strong body pressed against him, pelvic-to-pelvic, keeping him in place, as the Mask said, "Sometimes power plays happen _before_ the sex. Have you had your cherry popped?"

Peter's jaw dropped. _"What?"_

The body trapping him to the wall, it seemed to thrum with power. Then those red-clad hips _rolled,_ a hard grind that had his breath catching and the almost-thought on his lips to turn into a cracked, startled whimper. His eyes were wide behind his mask, a tendril of fear rippling through him. When those hips rolled against him for the second time, Peter's body came alive as panic surged.

Holy _crap,_ what was this man doing? Was he _insane?_ "Get _off_ me!"

Strong arms caged his head, a masked face inches from his. "Nah, baby boy. I'm liking where I'm at. Our friend over there, he can _hang around_ for a bit. Fun times, you know? Let's get _acquainted."_

Peter didn't want to acquainted with this man. Danger curled tight around the Mask, as thick and heavy as the body it was nestled within. Peter's mind was whirling, pieces of information fitting together as he tried to make sense of all of… _this!_ As he pressed his palms to a hard chest, his mind stilled as pieces of his aunt and uncle's mornings came into mind. The television, the news, trouble in NYC.

Stories of a mercenary with a terrifying score of dead bodies behind him…

"Deadpool," Peter gasped the name as the body pressed closer. He felt the smile pressed to the side of his neck, absently wondering when the infamous _Merc with a Mouth_ had buried his head against the underside of his chin. Peter's blood cooled. "You're _Deadpool…"_

"That's right, Baby Boy," Deadpool's nose nudged the underside of his chin. A low laugh rumbled in his ear as the man murmured, "And daddy _really_ wants to know who his baby boy is. Punishment's up and coming. Can't whip ya without a name, sweetie."

Peter's voice caught in his voice. _The man's insane._

Before he could open his mouth– to say his name, to tell him off, to _scream –_ , there was a clicking sound and a flash of green and blue. Then Queenie was there, on Deadpool's face. The Mask screeched, yanking backward and swatting at the spiders that were on the headpiece of his suit. A machinal one came from above, landing on the back of his neck. Deadpool's resounding roar (or was that a _girly scream)_ was enough for Peter to dart to the side. His gaze snapped to the man on the wall – his head was sagging on his neck, blood oozing, slowly, from the numerous blades in his body. Dead. The man was dead.

"What the _fuck?_ Spiders? You're a _spider whisperer!"_ Deadpool had flung the spiders off, gloved hands sweeping over his body before he turned to face him. Peter took a step back, frightened as his senses began to tingle. The adrenaline was rising, the world coming into crystal-clear, sharp focus as the Mask took a threatening step forward. "Well, _Spidey,_ it seems daddy Deadpool's gonna have to teach his baby boy a lesson in _manners._ What would you like: gun or blade?"

"Neither, thanks for asking," Peter squeaked as he eased away from the walls.

Though he couldn't see the man's face, he knew Deadpool was grinning. "Come on, baby boy…"

Peter's hands were up in front of him, palms open. He waved his hands, voice higher as he said, "Dude, I'm _sorry_ for interrupting…whatever that was. And for landing on you. Shocking you're not dead, actually. An impact from that high should have flattened you to the ground. Pancaked. _Dead._ You're not dead…"

The Mask paused, head quirking to the side as Peter continued, "Realistically speaking, none of this should be possible. Queenie, can we get _going,_ please. She won't bite. I think. Hard to say. The boys might, though, considering you asked if I had my _cherry_ popped! God, who _asks_ shit like that? Seriously!"

 _"Spiiideey…"_ Deadpool's voice came out soft and enticing, almost sing-song.

Peter darted to the side, then leapt up onto the wall. He attached himself in a sort of side-plank position, both feet together and one arm holding in place. Deadpool was looking up at him, blades now in hand. Peter watched as the man sheathed them, leather mask turned up around the mouth as Peter pulled his body into a curled, ready-to-launch ball.

Swallowing, Peter called down to the man, "Well, this Meet'n'Greet was nice and all…but I'm gonna go."

He didn't give the man a chance to respond before he flung himself out over the roof, body twisting so he could shoot an absurdly thick web to a distant billboard sign. Then he was swinging away, heart hammering in his chest. The sensation of being watched lingered. When he landed on the billboard's catwalk, he turned and looked out over the city.

Deadpool was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

 **Author's Note**

The moment we all were waiting for had finally arrived! Deadpool and Peter have finally met! And it also seems the name "Spidey" has a good context, given how his association with spiders came into being. Queenie and her boys jumping on Deadpool's face. Frankly, writing this chapter was hard for me. I've never written someone like Deadpool (or _tried_ to write someone who's essentially a loose cannon and says the most random shit). I'm not entirely sure how I like their first interaction, though the Creep Factor _is_ in place. I wrote and rewrote the last half of this chapter because I wasn't sure _how_ I wanted to write the infamous Merc with a Mouth. The buildup to their introduction took longer than I liked, but it worked.

So your thoughts on their first "scene" would be appreciated. Deadpool's a bit cra-cra, after all.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, so, please: _favorite, follow, and review!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Black Mirror**

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

* * *

"You've lost a lot of weight, Peter."

Victor Tenenbaum watched him as he paced, the doctor's expression unreadable, golden hair loose around his face. Leaning against the wall was Dr. Anisa Wong, her long black hair a thick braid draped over her shoulder. The two watched, their gazes hard, but Peter wasn't interested in sitting as they tried to pry apart his thoughts. His ears were ringing, his skin clammy, a sheen of sweat coating his back.

He wanted to leave. Peter rubbed at his left ear, brow furrowing as the high-pitched whine continued to assault his eardrums. There was a warbling note to it, a sort of shift that hinted at a changing frequency the teenager had never heard before. Or maybe it was two tones, intermingling as they sang. Peter wasn't sure _when_ he noticed the sound, but, now that he was _hearing_ it, if felt like it had been there from the start. A constant, droning noise echoing in the background.

Dr. Wong pushed away from the wall, a fluid motion that had his attention zeroing in on her. "You seem anxious, Peter. Is everything alright?"

There wasn't a logical answer to that question, one that wouldn't make him seem _mad._ Peter pursed his lips, a fine white line, and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie. He grabbed his wrists, nails biting into flesh, spinnerets quavering under the skin, as he met, and held, Dr. Wong's gaze.

"I'm fine," Peter started pacing, one hand rising to rub at his ear when the distant, tonal echo rose.

Dr. Tenenbaum frowned. "You've lost close to sixty pounds, Peter. You haven't been sleeping well, you're up most nights, and your diet's changed. Has something happened you want to tell us about?"

Peter wanted to leave. "Nothing's happened."

"If nothing happened, then your vitals would have been roughly the same as all your other visits."

Peter stilled, his gaze shifting to Dr. Wong. Her expression was even, though Peter picked up on the soft undercurrent holding her words aloft. Vitals. Peter slowly turned, inhaling slowly. "And how _are_ my vitals, Dr. Wong? You ran a few blood panels right before the meeting. You also had the nurses do a wellness check. Has the test results shown anything… _abnormal?"_

"Your results were alarming, to say the least," Dr. Wong paused beside him, her hands clasped behind her back. Alarming. Peter didn't like that. That was a warning. The shrill, high-pitched drone increased, the hairs along his arms, and on the back of his neck, rising. "Your blood panels showed a high level of cortisol and epinephrine, there's a dramatic decrease in the production of your white blood cells. There's more, but those were the three most notable changes…"

"Epinephrine and cortisol spikes are indicative to a natural response to stress or danger," Peter closed his eyes, mentally cursing himself for not realizing a simple _blood panel_ could tell the doctors more about him and his current _issues_ than Peter was aware about himself. He finally exhaled, a slow and drawn-out motion that hand Dr. Wong stepping closer to him. Peter's eyes cracked open, his attention focused on the hand hovering near his shoulder. It froze, mid-air. She didn't lower it as he said, "Asking if I'm _stressed_ is an inane question, one we all know the answer to. You know my situation. The finances. School and college. My _condition._ You know how it impacts my daily life."

Peter ran a hand over his face, turning on his heel to continue his semi-aggressive track along the wall. The two doctors exchanged a look, Dr. Wong going quiet as her partner leaned forward and rested his chin on his interlaced fingers. Peter didn't need to look at him to know he was going to speak, which he did in a soft, lower tone that Peter hadn't heard in a while.

"You haven't been this wound up in a long time."

Peter closed his eyes, his back to them. Exhaling, body relaxing, exhaustion showing, he turned and faced the two. Their expressions sharpened. Dr. Tenenbaum stood and made his way to the little kitchen, pouring a glass of water in a clear, crystal cup. Peter took it when the man offered, sipping on it before saying, "I suppose things _have_ been a bit troubling. Between the college courses I'm taking, Aunt May and Uncle Ben's fights, school…I can't shut my mind off, these days."

"The medication isn't working?"

Dr. Wong took a glass of water when Dr. Tenenbaum offered it, though she didn't drink any. Her gaze was on him, lips turning down at the corners. "How are you sleeping? How is your diet?"

Peter stared at her. "My diet's fine. I've…been eating a lot, actually. I have a hard time sleeping."

 _'Aunt May's already told you this. You pointed it out a few minutes ago,'_ Peter turned away, his grip tightening on the glass. He took another sip, a quick stall for time, as his mind whirled and pieces came together. Dr. Tenenbaum and Wong knew him, knew him better than some people would ever hope to understand him. They respected him, _cared_ despite it being illogical. _'She keeps a file of observations about me. She sends them once a week. You know I'm aware of this…'_

Why were they talking about something all three of them already had notes on? Peter took another drink, a tad longer this time. His nose wrinkled as he tasted the city's chemicals in the liquid. Disgusting. He set it on the table after he turned back to them, voice lower as he said, "Why this confrontation. What's your aim? You generally don't address a topic you know I'm keeping tabs on."

This entire meeting was a waste of time. Peter continued to pace, hands clasped behind his back. "There's something else going on, isn't there? Your laptops aren't in the room. Dr. Wong, your clothing isn't the usual. You generally have your overcoat in the room if you're not wearing it…"

Both of them, they were wrong. Peter felt his senses stirring, a low-key hum rushing under his skin as he stilled in the middle of the room. There was a…noise. It wasn't like the other sound he'd been hearing. This one was different. A drone-like, hissing, high-pitched sound he couldn't name. It was in the building, he realized as he turned and swept his gaze over the walls.

Not close, but not too far away he couldn't hear it.

"Peter," Dr. Wong's hand fell on his shoulder and he jerked away, eyes wide and body locked. She kept her hand in the air, for a moment, and then she lowered it as she said, "Peter, you've lost weight. You were asleep for several days, sick after your field trip…"

Peter's gaze narrowed. His aunt _hadn't_ mentioned the field trip.

His gaze darted over the two of them, taking stock of all the odd little details in the room. The blinds over the windows, the lack of material to keep his hands occupied. Dr. Wong's sudden pressure on his shoulder when she knew his dislike for being touched. The way they were watching him, the closed expressions...

Exhaustion, it pulled at his senses. Dulled them. That's why he hadn't noticed.

Peter tightened his grasp on his hands where they were clasped behind his back. "My sugar dropped when I was at Oscorp with my class. They had to write a record of the incident. I almost blacked out. You were sent a record of that. Aunt May dropped it off."

It was Monday, after he had woken up from sleeping through an entire weekend. Aunt May had taken the paperwork. The verification was on Peter's desk when he got home – they always signed off so Peter had a running record of everything that had to do with him. His gaze narrowed.

His senses were on edge. The entire room was off. His _doctors_ were off.

The ringing, shrill, dual-toned cry was rising. Peter pressed a hand to his ear, wincing as the two doctors exchanged a look. Dr. Wong took a step towards him and Peter held up a hand. She stilled, palms exposed and facing him as Dr. Tenenbaum circled the two of them. When the man tried to grab him, Peter rolled under his arm and put both doctors in his line of vision.

"Why the change?" Peter looked between them as Dr. Wong replied, "Peter, we can help you."

Peter remembered his interaction with _Deadpool,_ how he had fallen from a height that should have killed him. Should have killed _them_. Peter was alive, though. He was tired, yes. He was always hungry, stomach turning in on itself, and his senses were sharper than they had been _before_ he had been bitten, and his _sight_ was perfect even with the glasses perched on his nose in effect. Peter was smart. He had a mind keener than the two across from him, his gaze darting over their features as the shrill, wailing scream bit into his eardrums. His other hand came up, clamping over his ears as the air around him seemed to _vibrate._

"Peter! _Peter!"_ Hands were on his shoulder, arms wrapped around his torso. He was sandwiched between the two and _someone was screaming._ Peter tried to clamp his hands over his ears, tried to block the ungodly sound as it rang and rang _and rang._ His head was aching. His body was tense. His throat–

Peter's breath hitched, throat raw. Screaming. _He_ was screaming. Dr. Wong was smoothing his hair from his face, barely touching. Combing her fingers through his hair, nails scraping his scalp. But it wasn't Dr. Wong, Peter realized as his vision tilted and dipped. There was someone else in front of him, his face pressed against a familiar neck and familiar arms wound around him.

 _"Harry,"_ Peter's voice cracked, eyes suddenly wet. _"Harry…"_

"We need to call a doctor," Dr. Tenenbaum was saying, in the background.

Harry's voice was harsh as he snapped, "No, you will _not_ call a doctor. This happens. I'm taking him home."

 _"'Peter, hatchling, I can hear your heartbeat,'"_ Peter jerked away, whipping around in a circle. His Spider-Sense, as he was dubbing it, was on high alert. There was a predator, nearby. No, not nearby. He could hear something, a wet, slinking sound that seemed to pulse and sing. He reached and grabbed Harry's hand, still as he spied a liquid-like mass in the shadows. In the mirrors, shifting and twisting and branching out. There but not. It was in the room, it was dangerous, and it was _intent_ as it whispered, _"'I smell your fear. It pumps through your body, floods your veins with ice. I have been looking for you…'"_

"We have to go," Peter turned, pushing his hands into Harry's chest. _"Now!_ We have to go _now!"_

The ringing was back, rising steadily. Peter's body pitched to the side, the spinnerets within his arms seizing as MJ called out his name in concern. He wasn't sure when she arrived. Had she been there the entire time? Did she show up later? Was Ned in the area? In the background, Dr. Wong and Tenenbaum were fast on their heels, the two of them protesting his early exit. Harry's voice was sharp and harsh.

Peter couldn't hear him over the whirling in his head and the droning undertone and the dual-toned, echoing laughter. He couldn't feel anything but poison in his veins, flooding his senses with cold and dread and _hunger._ A dark, liquid shadow glided over reflective surfaces. Spiders whispered along the walls, a small army that whirled and danced and circled. Defensive, Peter realized – they had come to his _defense_.

MJ had his backpack. Harry had his arm around Peter's waist, keeping him upright as the world spun and tilted and as a thousand spiders– those in the building, those in the city around him –came skittering in waves. The black-thing slung itself off the building, _stretching_ between two towers overhead, and kept pace with them as Harry drove them away.

Peter didn't remember getting in the car. He didn't remember putting his head in MJ's lap, either.

 _"'You cannot run, hatching,'"_ the black-thing was in the distance. Peter could see it out the back window, see it gliding through the air, graceful and metallic and black-blue-purple, and he knew, on some instinctual level, that _thing_ was talking to him. Peter closed his eyes, turning his face against MJ's stomach as the creature laughed. Then it's voice was all around them, though MJ didn't seem to hear (or Harry) as it whispered, _"'Spiders come running, web-weaver. They hear me. They know me. They come because you call. But you don't know you call, do you hatchling? I have traveled far, to find you. So far. In the dark, in the cold. Alone. Not alone anymore. I have found you, hatchling.'"_

"This is a nightmare," Peter rolled onto his side, burrowing against MJ and hiding his face against her. Her hand was rubbing his back, fingers then carding through his hair. He tried to relax into the touch as he said, "I'm dreaming. The doctors are assholes. I'm going to wake up and this headache will be gone."

"Is he alright?" Harry glanced into the review mirror.

Peter turned his head to meet his friend's gaze, tired and dazed and ears ringing as the _thing_ laughed. It was a sound Peter would rather _not_ hear, but he knew the creature, whatever it was, wasn't going to go anywhere. He focused, instead, on the tension in his wrists. Pain flared, branching into his hands. He flexed his fingers, feeling the tension in the spinnerets, felt the stickiness clinging to his skin.

A quick glance showed a mass of _white_ bunched around the spinnerets, leaking into his palm. He fisted his hand, holding it to his chest as MJ talked to Harry about something Peter couldn't bring himself to care about. He dropped his head in her lap, shivering.

When the car came to a stop, Peter didn't protest when Harry lifted him out of the car and carried him inside. Aunt May was at their side, fluttering about with worry shining in her eyes. Peter knew she was following them down the steps, heard MJ explaining his "episode" in the office. When he lifted his gaze to see his aunt, her long hair loose around her, he saw her hands over her mouth and pain in her gaze.

"Auntie, s'kay. Just tired," Peter's eyes slid shut, but he felt his back sink into his mattress. Someone was tugging his shoes off. Then his blanket was being pulled over his body, his aunt pressing a kiss to his forehead. He heard MJ and Harry asking to stay, felt the bed sinking and an arm winding around his waist.

Then MJ was on the phone, pacing in the background.

Peter was out, then. Queenie watched from the ceiling, hidden as a black, inky mass slid through the cracks of the sliding, glass door. She watched, Fred and George finding hidden, out-of-sight places along the bed to keep watch as the creature slinked across the ceiling to pool itself in the corner above the bed.

No one moved for a long time.

Hours ticked by, MJ leaving after pressing a chaste kiss to Peter's cheek. Harry bid her farewell, telling her to call once she was home. When Aunt May came down, the older teen was getting ready for work. Peter laid there, unconscious but, somehow, aware. Once he was alone, the spiders crept out.

The thing above his dead slunk down the wall, perched on his headboard. _"'Your body, it's breaking apart, hatchling. Too weak for this evolution. It doesn't have to be this way, hatchling. I can aide you, make your body stronger. I can ensure you survive.'"_

Peter opened his eyes, felt Queenie stirring in the hollow of his throat. Her workers were perched on his chest, clicking angrily. Worried. He lifted a sluggish hand and ran a finger down their backs, silently calming them as he eyed the creature peering, faceless, down at him from his headboard. From where he sat, it looked like a black mass filled with a thousand, shimmering stars of many colors. Beautiful but deadly.

His senses were quivering, urging him to put distance between himself and the creature.

Peter's ears were ringing, however. His limbs heavy. His mouth dry.

When he didn't reply, the creature slinked down to the bed. It didn't touch him, but it did curl around his shoulders and then _stretched_ so it was looming over him. A long neck-like extension with an elongated cranium-like structure that was supposed to pass for a head but didn't. Not really. There was no mouth, no nose, no _eyes_. Just a faceless, inky _thing_ that stared down at him.

 _"'The woman upstairs, her body is worn down. Life struggles to flourish in it,'"_ Peter grit his teeth, anger rising as Aunt May was brought into the picture. He tried to push himself up, to lift his head off the bed, but his body wouldn't move. Couldn't. The creature continued, _"'The man blames himself. They fought while you slept. I sat in their hanging glass lights and listened. They say you are ill like the woman who bore you into this world. They worry about not being able to cover the treatments the healers suggest.'"_

Peter exhaled, harshly.

The creature continued, _"'Your doctors said your white insides are low. You will get sicker. You will die.'"_

Queenie was vibrating, limbs lowered to his chest. Sweat covered Peter's body. The creature lowered its head until a breath separated them, its voice lower as it whispered, _"'I can make you stronger than you have ever been. I can make it so the venom in your body does not end you. I will be the balm that tempers it, if you will allow me to fix you.'"_

There was truth, in its words. Peter could feel the venom from Queenie in him. It hasn't been there long, but it wasn't diluting. It continued to work his insides, to alter and break him apart. The webs, they were forming. Filling him. His body required more substance than he consumed. Peter knew well enough what happened to a body that burned more energy than it consumed – weight loss, to start, but it would drop to fatigue and illness if continued. Starvation. Organs eventually shutting down. Death.

His white blood cells were alarmingly low, if the doctors were to be believed. Which meant he was more likely to get sick, to weaken. Queenie fluttered against his throat, her forelegs brushing his chin as he stared up at the creature. Fred and George, bodies a beautiful, glow-in-the-dark blue, were still. Unmoving. Did they worry about him? Was his state due to the changes or something else?

He felt his body as it stirred. The spiders fluttered as he slowly sat up, quiet as he turned to face the creature that was across from him. He was weak, still, but Peter knew if he just _ate_ something, he would be fine. The mutation raging within his veins took a lot out of him. He just needed to eat more.

The creature seemed to sense his thoughts. _"'Your answer, hatchling.'"_

Peter eyed the creature. "Why would I agree to anything when I don't know what you are?"

It pulsed, then a white mark bloomed on the skull-like shape of its head. A four-pointed star. When it pushed away from the headboard, landing on his thigh, Peter tensed. The spiders flared their front legs, clicking in warning. Peter felt it crawling up his shirt, attaching itself to his clothing until it could drape itself around his shoulders. Ice and fire bloomed along his skin where its weight settled.

 _"'An answer wise beyond most mortal's knowing,'"_ the creature was swaying side-to-side, and Peter watched, eyes wide, as the lower half of its face split to form a large, grinning mouth. Two pools of white formed on its face, the middles flaring out and red. _"'Very well, hatchling. I shall relent, for now. You will see, however, that you need me. You cannot hope to live without me, without the power I offer.'"_

It slinked away from him, its liquid form gliding over his skin. Heat and cold washed over his hands and arms, numbing within moments. He watched as it glided over the floor, as it flowed under the door to the backyard, and Peter stayed, sitting up and wide-eyed, until the earliest rays of dawn washed over the room. He was there still when Aunt may came down, the bed dipping as she sat by him and drew him into her arms. She was there when Peter finally dragged himself out of his room and up the stairs.

He saw what the creature said – she was tired, skin a bit grey. She smiled, anyway.

And, as Peter sank into a chair by the kitchen table, he couldn't help but wonder.

If that creature could help _him_ with his mutation…

Could it help his family, too?

* * *

 **Author's Note**

I'm back, ladies and gents! About time, too. I've been trying to figure out this chapter. It took a turn I wasn't expecting, but my brain tends to make jumps and leaps I can't keep up with when I'm writing. I let it flow, for connections to spring together and form. I'm quite pleased with this chapter. I'm slowly getting back into the motions of writing fanfiction (I have _so many_ stories on here it isn't even funny), but I'm not doing as much of it as I would like. Most of my stories I haven't worked on in a while, so it's hard for me to get into the flow of things.

And, yeah, the meeting between Peter and Deadpool in the last chapter was quick. There's no Deadpool in this chapter, no physically, though I can't blame Peter for having the deadly merc on his mind. The man had, to a degree, sexually assaulted our loveable teenager. Not to worry, however. Deadpool _will_ be in the next chapter. I have bits of their next meeting mapped out. The man's super hard for me to write, though I glad you all liked him in the last chapter.

That's one of the reasons why the scene was so damn _short._ I wasn't sure how well I could flesh him out, so I tried to make the scene thrilling but brief. I'll do my best, I swear. I want to make sure all of you enjoy him as a character, even with my own spin on him. This chapter also brings in a new twist to the story, though how that'll play out is going to be fun. I wasn't expecting it, but it wrote itself in there and I went with it. It'll be fun.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, so, please: _favorite, follow, and review!_


	7. Chapter 7

**Black Mirror**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

* * *

The autofeline sat on the top of an old, battered computer, unblinking gaze judgmental.

Ala'fe, as Peter had named her, was an odd thing. One of his first creations. One he had thought was dead and gone, but, well, here she was. On his computer. Staring at him. As he typed commands, pushed them from the keyboard into the computer so they would show up on the monitor. Ala'fe stared, the entire time. Judging him. Silently. Peter pushed away from the desk, wheeled chair gliding over the wooden floor with ease and without sound.

The creature from a week ago, it continued to haunt his thoughts. Peter ran a hand over his face, his hands thin and fragile. He knew Queenie, Fred, and George were watching him. Always watching. Flexing his hands, Peter shifted his attention back to the computer and the notes he was putting in on his own condition. Numbers, comments, analyses, possible outcomes and dates for his expiration.

It wasn't looking good, no matter how many times he ran the numbers.

Peter didn't know what to do. The creature, it was _near._ He could sense it, hearing the low-key humming that hadn't been present until its arrival. His notebooks for school were tossed aside, his cellphone dead by his bed. He had barely left his room in the days that had passed since he blacked out, since the creature had shown itself and offered an unlikely bargain.

When it had said something about _Aunt May_ struggling, about how his caregivers were fighting.

 _'The woman upstairs, her body is worn down. Life struggles to flourish in it.'_ That's what the creatue had said, when it spoke of Aunt May. She's worn down, her body struggling to maintain proper functions to survive. His family…was falling apart. Peter's lips pressed into a thin line as he shot a look at the clock, watching as the time shifter closer and closer to midnight. _'Life struggles to flourish…'_

Peter turned back to the notes, scanning them as he frowned. He knew he was mutating because of the bite Queenie had gifted him with: sharped reflexes, heightened eyesight, keener senses, inhuman hearing, an awareness for incoming danger and the ability to _dodge_ on an instinctual level, enhanced speed and strength powered by flunarasil (the fluid spider silk flowing in through him) in his body, enhanced hunger…

He knew his intake of food was increasing in leaps and bounds. His body was constantly burning energy, the mutations expending energy he didn't have. The venom coursing through him, he mused, wasn't designed to shift and changed based on the body it was in – it was a virus that would continue unhindered until the body evolved or died. There wasn't a middle ground, not with how things were at that moment in time. Peter understood that, scowled as he ran the numbers over and over _and over again_.

For over a week, he had been running the numbers. Trying to figure out how to lessen the stress Queenie's venom was putting him through. A small part of him considered telling Harry what was happening, that maybe Norman would be able to do something about what was happening. The man had the main housing unit with radioactive spiders in his company – perhaps he had an antidote.

Peter, as usual, pushed the thought aside. He could figure this out on his own.

Rising, he stretched. There were tests to run, limits to push.

He took his time as he changed into his suit, sliding easily into the jeans and their soft interior before slipping into the rest of the clothing. He kept the hood down and the mask clipped to his hip as he made his way upstairs, silent as he made his way into the kitchen. He went through the cupboards and refrigerator, filling a large plate up with food. Lots of starches and carbs, food that made him _feel_ food but didn't provide necessary protein or energy – meat wasn't a large stable in the house, as it tended to be outrageously expensive. Peter munched on one of him many sandwiches, absently putting the others in Ziplock bags before stashing them away in a pouch he had attached to his belt.

He returned to the basement, slipping his mask on before pulling his hood up. Once out in the backyard, he jumped up onto the roof and looked out over the darkened streets of the part of town he lived in. The street in front of the house was dead, no traffic passing through. The rolling, fenced yards behind his and his neighbors' homes were also quiet, the lights off and the atmosphere tranquil.

Peter jumped from the roof, a web flying out to catch a lamppost. He swung idly over the streets, for a while. Gliding peacefully through the more town-like sections of the city before picking up his pace. He let himself swing up, higher and higher, with every new web. It didn't take long until he was out of the quieter parts of the city and in the ever-awake part of the world he called home.

People didn't stop and gawk as he swung by, the citizens of the city all too use to seeing Masks going about and doing their own things. Peter didn't let that stop him from landing on a bus, balanced easily on the moving vehicle, crouched with his palms flat against the cold, metal surface. He leaped away, twisting to land feet-first against the side of a building. He stuck, braced against the stone surface like a spider on a wall – an ironic, but accurate, comparison, Peter knew.

He went to the ground, often enough. Roamed the back alleyways, prowling with a sense of purpose. He tested his senses often, using them to pinpoint activity around the busy streets. The screech of a tire to the west went to a car that needed some repairs, ASAP. The scent of beer from a bar, each drifting out of doors to local bars that had neon signs flashing over their entrance. A stray leaf whirling through the air, dancing between cars as it was carried on the subtle, flurried drafts of an unexpected breeze.

He kept his eyes peeled for Deadpool, trusting his intuition when it whispered that he hadn't seen the last of the man. Peter knew that, as long as he stalked the streets as a Mask himself, chances of running into the Merc, or the Avengers, were more likely than not. The Avengers wouldn't be pleased to have an unnamed Mask wandering about. Peter was an unknown. Deadpool, on the other hand, was known for being insane. The man was likely to be displeased with how they split apart, that Peter _got away_.

Peter, aware of all of this, couldn't be bothered to spare the Avengers or Deadpool another thought.

The teen had a mind only for his experiments, at the moment. He needed to know how he was changing, to learn how everything in him worked. Where was the spinnerets getting their silk from? Was there some kind of store in his body created by Queenie's bite? If that was the case, perhaps it was in his neck. He prodded at the area, not for the first time, and felt only his skin and the hard muscle underneath.

As he sailed through the air, he contemplated what could be causing the silk in his body to form. It wasn't something humans did naturally. There were few creatures who were able to spin webs or silk, spiders and certain species of worms being at the top of the list. Landing on a rooftop, he darted along the lip, the edge of the building aligned with the side of his feet, as his mind whirled and put whatever little information he had into a setup that could, in time, _make sense_.

He was sure to keep an eye on his exhaustion.

When Peter noticed he was starting to lag, when the webs were becoming weaker, he'd stop and sit on the ledge of a building. He'd munch on one of the many sandwiches he had made for himself. Each provided a tiny burst of energy, the webs would harden a fraction, and then Peter was off and flinging himself off the top of some unnamed building.

Freefalling was quickly becoming something he enjoyed. As he dove towards the ground, hooded cloak-like coat whipping around him, Peter turned his awareness to the inside of his body. He could feel the flunarasil as it coursed through him, feel it flooding the spinnerets while also pressing against the inside of his limbs and torso. Internal armor. He could feel his skin hardening, the tendons and joints in his body becoming stronger, muscles warming – it was almost as if the flunarasil was creating an exoskeleton, one that was thin and invisible to the naked eye but stronger than substances he knew of.

Peter was troubled, however. He could _feel_ the fluid silk in his body, feel it pumping through his veins as he flung web after web, felt it flare out through his feet and ankles and legs whenever he landed. It was quick to cushion his impacts, rapidly absorbing whatever shock-impacts Peter put his body through. Like a good pair of tennis shoes, actually, with the impact protection. Yet, even though he could _feel_ the stuff in his body, Peter had yet to locate the exact location it was coming out of.

Whenever he was resting, his body would return to normal. The flunarasil would, in a way, _vanish_.

The thought bothered him more than he cared to admit.

As Peter spiraled through the air, web after web connecting him from one building to the next, his thin body twisting and flipping like a skilled acrobat, he noticed the void at the edge of his awareness. His lips thinned as he arched into the air, untethered for a moment, his senses flowing outward, further and further, in search of the black, inky creature that had stalked him.

As gravity grabbed onto him, Peter pinpointed the creature's location – only for it to flicker away, gone.

His brow furrowed in a scowl as he twisted, landing lightly on a rooftop. With Queenie and the boys back at home, Peter was out on his own. Crouched on the top of a skyscraper, the teen exhaled, eyes closing, and reached out. The world around him exploded, the city becoming a matrix of _energy_ in his mind. Echoes bounced between buildings, the ground (so far below) quaked with the earth's gentle tremors, the air hummed and buzzed with too many things to count.

Then, flickering from one location to the next, breaking apart and coming back together, was the creature that had, for well over a week, been _stalking_ Peter. The longer the venom was in his body, the more he was able to pick up on its presence – but only when it wanted him to. It's words echoed in his mind, the gentle promise of _fixing_ him a distant, too-good-to-be-true beacon of hope.

Could it help him survive the transformation he was going through? Could it temper Queenie's venom?

Like always, the black _thing_ was still on the edge of his awareness. Peter turned and spied it, its ink-like body stretching as it sailed through the air. It came to a landing on the metal spire across the roof from him, the creature oddly quiet as it observed him. No echoing laughter. No droning, hissing hum of danger.

Peter sensed the creature, though.

It was a blot in his senses, a void which drew him in. Like it was trying to draw him in, enticing him.

He refused to touch it. Peter didn't know enough about anything, at this moment of time. He already had the changes from a radioactive spider to deal with. Peter didn't even _know_ what that thing was or why it was following him. Why it had hunted him down. It was simply there, watching. Stalking. Observing. As creepy as it was, and Peter was unnerved to find the thing in his aunt and uncle's _house_ on some occasions, Peter did what he always did when confronted with a problem he had yet to work out.

He ignored it like he did Deadpool and the Avengers.

If he didn't think about it, it didn't exist.

Perhaps it was a cold way of thinking, but with everything that was happening…

Peter felt it was a justified thought process. Between the venom eating him from the inside, his daily life, his new powers, trying to figure out what to _do_ with said powers and learning what he _could_ do, Peter was at a loss. Which was new. His machines were developing in leaps and bounds. His raptor was half-created, the skeletal system he set up pushing it close to three feet. Taller than he anticipated, but it was _right_. Peter knew machines. They had a way they had to be put together, a structure that couldn't be ignored. They gave him the guidelines, the blueprints, and he followed the instructions.

Life didn't give someone a blueprint when it came to being bit my manmade, radioactive spiders.

Or black, inky creatures that stalked him.

Peter eyed the creature, sensed its attention on him, and, in response, turned and stepped off the building. Then there was a shift, a low laugh-like sound that echoed and vibrated through the air. The inky creature was amused. Lovely. It vanished from his senses, once again, and Peter was content to let it slip away while he changed directions and headed to one of his favorite locations.

The sun would be rising soon, and there were few places he knew that displayed the beauty of a new dawn with celestial presence. Skyscrapers were one place, but Peter had a preference for the docks at the edge of the city, beyond the ruins of a town that had been hit in the last alien invasion. He glided through the city, easily slipping from the busy streets into the ghostly ruins in a fraction of the time it would take him by car – though Harry and MJ were the only ones who would take him this far, these days.

His aunt and uncle rarely had the time for an extended trip.

Peter landed on the docks near the ocean, exhaling, slowly, as he gazed out at the sea. The old, wooden dock beneath him bobbed upon the gentle waves of the sea, the air smelling thick with salt. The water rippled, stirring as creatures beneath woke and glided and danced beneath the waves. A bird sailed overhead, quiet as it coasted through the air.

It was peaceful, in this little place. Tucked away from the rest of the world, Peter knew he could find peace here. He drew in a steady breath, muscles relaxing and tension evaporating. The flunarasil evaporated, his shoulders rolling as he reached into the pouch attached to his hip for the last few sandwiches he had in his possession. In a handful of hours, he'd have to head off to home. Perhaps tackle school since he had avoided it for a week. The thought of the cramped hallways and the students, of people bumping into him, the loud noises – Peter frowned as the images floated across his mind.

Still, he was able to relax. To let his body unwind, his muscles to cool.

A mistake, Peter realized in alarm, when arms wound around his waist from behind. He stared dumbly at arms clad in red-black leather, not quite comprehending what was going on until he nearly screamed when a masked face brushed along the side of his. A mask-covered nose nudged his chin as a low, rumbling voice murmured, "Found ya, baby boy."

A large hand pressed against his stomach, fingers sprawled out wide. The man's hand nearly covered the entirety of his waist, the impressive height of Deadpool (who _else_ could it be) alarming when Peter realized the crown of his head didn't reach the man's shoulders. Masked lips grazed his ear. "I was looking for you, _Spidey_. You've been on my mind since we met. Wanted to talk."

Peter's heart hammered inside his chest. He hadn't _sensed him._

When he shifted, the grip around his waist tightened.

A warning, Peter realized, when Deadpool let out a low, rumbling growl. A hand cupped his hipbone, wrapping around it with enough force to hurt. The flunarasil was moving again, flaring up in a sharp, painful burst before flooding into the tissue that was his flesh. It was sinking into the spinnerets, filling them with a rush of energy – and Peter realized there _wasn't_ a pool of flunarasil in him, not in the sense that there was some kind of _container_ for it. His body was the conduit. _He_ was making it, his body making the liquid silk like a flower made its own food from sunlight.

Then Peter wondered _what,_ exactly, his body was using to make the flunarasil.

A hand wrapped around his neck, drawing his attention from his thoughts to the strong fingers biting into the tender column of his neck. Peter sensed the deadly intent, felt it in the grip on his neck, but his _"spider senses"_ weren't picking up a threat. It was as if Deadpool _disabled_ them with his mere presence, like he existed beneath the code his body was making. Peter held still, mind whirling. Processing, storing new pieces of information in the 'WTF?' category that his brain was steadily building.

"Let's start over, _Spidey,"_ Deadpool tightened the grip on his neck, cutting off Peter's air supply. Not enough to _actually_ choke him, not fully, but enough to make it hard for the teen to breathe properly. He felt the smile of the mercenary against the side of his face as the man said, "I _really_ want to fuck up your world, but we gotta set the ground rules. You read me?"

Peter struggled to breathe, hands curled over the tops of the arm attached to the hand _strangling_ him. He _did not,_ in fact, _read him_. Why the hell did they need _ground rules?_ Peter tried to make some kind of noise to alert the man that he was _not_ pleased about this situation, but all that came out of his mouth was a barely-audible whine of discomfort.

One Deadpool heard, judging by his happy exclaim of, "I thought you did, baby boy!"

Deadpool released him, and Peter lunged forward. He spun, eyes winding behind his mask to find the mercenary toe-to-toe with him. Deadpool was fast. Peter was still reigning in his breathing as he dunked under the man's first attempt to grab him, darting around the larger man's body. Peter had no intention on fighting the man on a _dock,_ of all places. He was a confident-enough swimmer, but the man could easily drown him given the differences in the bulk of their bodies.

Peter didn't fancy drowning due to oversized, homicidal maniacs.

"What the hell, dude?" Peter exclaimed as the man lunged for him again, moving faster than Peter thought possible. He bent backward, then slapped the man away, and was pushing himself up and away from the docks. He wasn't expecting Deadpool to slam into him the second his feet hit the sandy shore of the beach, nor for the two of them to hit the ground.

A hand caught his wrists, pushing the both of them into the sand above his head. The merc was defying the force lurking underneath his skin as it forced energy into his muscles, his muscles straining to heft the man off him while his own energy was rapidly depleting. Leather-clad hands caged his wrists, wrapping easily around the two, holding them securely as the other hand wrapped around his neck.

Deadpool tightened his grip in silent warning, voice low as he said, "Now let's get down to business."

* * *

 **Author's Note**

Another chapter, up and out in the world. This one is a bit wordy, really, but Peter's trying to figure things out. However, Deadpool has made a reappearance. It would seem he isn't happy about how he and Peter left off, though being pinned to the ground by the man while your own streagth is running out doesn't sound like a good thing. Then there's Peter's _other_ stalker. Things should prove interesting, in the next chapter!

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, so, please: _favorite, follow, and review!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Black Mirror**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight  
**

* * *

Peter's brain shut down.

He laid, still and limp, as his senses focused on the weight settled over his back and the grip on his neck flexed. He barely heard anything Deadpool was saying, only that the man was talking. Peter registered the sand under his body, the cool air, the sense of amusement the man was giving off as he tucked his knees against Peter's side.

Then he focused on the voice, brow furrowing as Deadpool said, "…more than I thought. So, who are you, Spidey? Mind if I roll ya over and take a peek?"

Peter blinked. Turning his head so it wasn't smushed into the ground, he said, "I do, actually. Mind, I mean. I mind quite a lot."

Peter felt large hands turning him, felt his muscles filling with latent power, his vision, so unfocused, starting to sharpen and zero in on the man hovering over the top of him. Thick fingers danced up his neck, skimmed over the edge of his mask as Deadpool laughed. "Sure ya do, Spidey. I mind, too! I mind a lot of things. You, at the moment. You _landed_ on me, baby boy. Then you ran away! Didn't your mother teach you manners?"

"My mother's dead," Peter deadpanned.

Deadpool stilled. "Oh. How about your dad?"

Where they _really_ having this conversation after the man shoved him against the ground? There was power in Deadpool's hands, certain knowledge about the way his fingers ghosted along the sides of Peter's ears. Swallowing, Peter muttered, "…he's dead, too."

Silk was pooling into his muscles, filling them with energy, as Deadpool hummed. The man grasped the edges of Peter's mask the same time Peter surged upward, his upper body upright in seconds and forehead slamming against Deadpool's jaw. Peter kept going, though, propelling himself _forward_ while, at the same time, shoving Deadpool onto his back.

Peter moved out of the man's range, settling his weight through both legs as the man rolled to his knees. Deadpool shook his head as if clearing it, muttering, _"I'm not an idiot, you little fucker!_ I just didn't expect… _that."_

"Who are you talking to?" Peter's eyes widened as Deadpool's head snapped up.

Then the man stood, swaying, as he answered, "Oh, that? You _heard_ that?"

Peter's skin tingled and then he was twisted to the side, almost screaming as a blade cut through the air above his head. He pushed away from the man, twisting out of the way of a _second_ blade, and, after a moment, recalled the fact Deadpool _did_ have two swords. He had them last time, anyway. When he had landed on him, back in that alleyway where they had first met.

Peter stumbled over his own feet, ears ringing as Deadpool lunged forward, blades in hand. He had a vague idea the man was humming a song under his breath, something current and popular. Peter was sure MJ listened to it throughout the days, though he couldn't place it with his ears ringing and his body feeling like it was made of stone.

When his back hit a stone wall, the blades were sheathed through the wall to the hilt on either side of Peter's body before Deadpool's hand closed around his throat for a second time. When Peter's hands flew up, the grip on his neck tightened, a silent warning. Peter's hands fluttered in mid-air, unsure what to do, and he had an impression the mercenary in front of him was grinning under that mask of his.

"You tired, Spidey?" Deadpool thrust one leg out, shoving it between Peter's thighs as he leaned his weight into the aforementioned limb. It brought their bodies closer, the larger man's body heat washing over the teen with startling power. "You're a bit sloppy, compared to last time. Did I interrupt a meal? Oh, _god,_ I didn't interrupt, did I? Like, if you were eating, _please_ tell me it was Mexican!"

Was this man _serious?_ Peter's jaw was slack, mind blanking further than it had moments ago as the odd spew left the man's mouth. Mexican? Sloppy? Peter tried to clear his voice, to think of _some_ response, but he was too tired for this shit. Too hungry, his body feeling weak and weary and his brain aching.

When the fingers skirted over the edge of his mask, Peter slapped the offending digits away as he said, "I _was_ getting ready to eat, before you interrupted. And I apologized for landing on you!"

"Did you?" Deadpool's head quirked to the side. "Wait…yeah, you're right, he _did_ apologize…"

Who was he _talking_ to? Peter pulled at the hand on his neck, stomach growling, and Deadpool laughed for a moment. Then he stepped backward, guiding Peter forward with a hand still wrapped around his neck. The smaller of the two was forced to walk, scowling under his mask as Deadpool said, "Well, I _just_ so happened to get finished with a mark, so, let's go eat!"

"What?"

Peter stumbled as Deadpool turned, hand finding its place on the back of his neck before a thick arm wrapped around his shoulders. Peter stumbled over his own feet, incredulous as the man ignored his question and kept saying, "I know the _best_ joint for an early breakfast! It's, like, twenty minutes from here. Is he hungry? Of _course_ he's hungry, dipshit. Didn't you hear his stomach? Sorry, Spidey. I'm Deadpool!"

"Pe—er, uh…" Peter cleared his throat, shifting his weight as he said, "Yeah, I know who you are."

"Pe–er? Peer? Pe…something," Deadpool led them through the destroyed, seaside port with a laugh. The teen couldn't quite believe how things had changed. The man had mauled him, pinned him, and was now taking him to breakfast? There wasn't any logic to that. He frowned as the man then said, "Are you gonna give me a hint, Spidey?"

"No."

"Then I'll start guessing, Spidey. You'll give yourself away," Deadpool sounded confident about that, and Peter was sure if Deadpool actually _stumbled_ over his name…he _would_ respond. It was a natural reaction, but it was a response the man couldn't have. So, when Deadpool readied himself for whatever tirade he was about to start letting loose, Peter interrupted with a calm, "Where are you taking me?"

"Breakfast, baby boy!" Deadpool answered instantly. "Geeze, weren't you _listening?"_

"You _attacked_ me," Peter wasn't sure how Deadpool had managed to sneak up on him.

If it wasn't for the arm around his shoulders or the looks the few early birds were giving them, he wouldn't even know the man was beside him. None of his senses were alerting him to the man or his closeness, but his mind was on edge. He could feel the weight of Deadpool's arm over his shoulders, could feel the heat of the man's body seeping into the side of his body. Peter was considerably _smaller_ than Deadpool, so much so that it was almost as if the man himself was semi-curled over his side.

Deadpool hummed. "Yeah, I _so_ did. I've been _lookin'_ for you, Spidey! You don't get out much, do you?"

Peter declined to answer that. It felt like a trap. Deadpool confirmed it, a moment later.

"You see, Spidey, we _really_ didn't get a moment to _talk,"_ Deadpool turned them down another street, snagging a newspaper off a stand without paying. He tucked it into his belt as he said, "I'm a _merc,_ baby boy. A damn _good_ one, at that. If I find a new mark that catches my eye, I don't like it when they go dark."

 _Ground rules,_ Deadpool had said.

Deadpool curled his hand around his shoulder, voice civil as he said, "Here's the deal, Spidey. I _really_ want to get to know you _before_ the Happy Family of Superheroes come in and rattle the box. You and me, baby boy. I wanna know what you can _do,_ you readin' me?"

They were making their way into a small business that had no sign, but the smell of spicy food had Peter turning his face away and his heels biting into the ground. It forced Deadpool to pause as Peter said, "If you're buying me breakfast, we're _not_ eating someplace that'll tear up my stomach."

The grip on his shoulder bordered painful. "They have options, Spidey. Come on."

The owner greeted Deadpool calmly and then showed them to the back, ushering them into a booth that was tucked against a wall. Peter eyed the corner of the booth, right in the middle and up against the wall. The place he would be most comfortable at if not for the man who was, quite literally, _forcing_ breakfast on him. When Deadpool made a growl-like noise in the back of his throat, Peter scurried into that corner and pulled his feet up onto the seat.

Deadpool sat by him, talking to the owner for a moment before saying, "What _would_ you like, Spidey?"

"…soup? Non-spicy soup. Maybe some crackers? Salad, too. Bread and peanut butter…" Peter's mind shifted to what this old man likely served, and then blinked. "Anything that's not spicy. Thank you, sir."

The old man vanished as Deadpool turned to him. "You're gonna have to take off the mask, Spidey. You can't eat with that on."

Peter scowled. A good point. Deadpool continued, "I lost valuable info, Spidey. My client wasn't happy."

Peter wasn't sure how that was _his_ problem. Something he said without thinking, his eyes widening behind his mask as a hand landed on the back of his neck. Deadpool waved at the waitress approaching their table, voice _different_ as he said, "Sweetheart, Darla, hun! Haven't seen _you_ since our last run. I'll have my usual. Spidey, here…what'll _you_ have to drink?"

"Water, please," Peter attempted to dislodge the grip on his neck as he added, "No ice or lemon."

He knew they were both staring at him. Peter tensed as the grip on the back of his neck tightened, mind whirling as he watched the old man running the shop came out with a salad and a bowl of fruit. A sense of relief flooded Peter as he thanked the old man, almost forgetting about the grip on his neck as he sliced up the fruit and dumped it on his salad.

And promptly remembered the fact he had a _mask_ on. Peter stilled, acutely aware of Deadpool's gaze on him – the man was eager to see him, he realized. Deadpool was a mercenary. He needed to _know_ who a target was in order to locate them – Peter was careful to ensure his mutations and his social life didn't overlap, knew that no one was aware of what was happening.

Except for his inky, alienesque stalker, apparently. Peter decided to _not_ think on the creature now that he could sense it slinking into his range of awareness, a slight buzzing nipping at the edge of his senses. He took a moment to breathe, hands pressed flat on the table as he said, "I'm afraid breakfast isn't going to work, Deadpool."

"And why is that, Baby Boy? The food not good enough?" There was a current of steel beneath the words, a warning Peter had no intention of listening to. He knew he couldn't shrug off the man's grip, but Peter didn't have any intention of doing so. Deadpool was, at the moment, stronger than him.

Instead, Peter relaxed into the grip despite the fact every instinct screamed at him _not_ to. With his mask firmly in place, Peter said, "Thing is, Deadpool, I don't know you. And I don't show my face in public."

Deadpool tapped a steady beat over the back of his neck as he said, "Can't eat with a mask on, Baby Boy."

"I already had a breakfast planned before you–" Peter nearly whined as the grip on his neck tensed, a spark of pain lighting up his senses. Peter forced himself to keep his hands _down,_ to not grab onto the painful hold the mercenary had on him. He stiffened when the man leaned into him, masked mouth brushing the side of his solid mask, inches from his ear. Deadpool's voice dropped an octave as he said, "I said to take the mask off, Spidey."

"Do you have a habit of sexually assaulting everyone, or am I special?"

"Assaulting?" The grip loosened. The man's voice incredulous as he asked, "You think I'm _assaulting_ you?"

Peter's mind whirled. "You've made several advances. Touched me and trapped me. _Without_ consent."

Dictionary-wise, that was the definition of assault. Essentially. Peter's palms were clammy, and his heart skipped a beat when the man snorted, but he knew he had to _get out_. The low-key ringing was back, the creature stalking him hissing his name from some distant place.

Deadpool hummed, fingers tapping along the back of his neck. "If I wanted sex, I wouldn't have to _rape you_ to get it. Or assault you. Which is rape, yeah?"

"Last I checked, rape and sexual assault aren't necessarily the same thing," Peter semi-agreed, uneasy as he spied the creature rolling across the ceiling behind Deadpool's head – it looked to be coming out of the kitchen, it's voice low as his hissed, _"'I can deal with him, hatchling. All you have to do is submit.'"_

Why was everyone trying to get one over him? Peter's attention zeroed in on the mercenary as Deadpool replied, "Well, _duh_. But I _rape_ people, Spidey. I have _some_ class – _that's the exact opposite of what I just said, asshat._ Sorry, Spidey. But, _yeah,_ me do no rapey. _"_

"You won't rape me, but you'll still try and force me to take off my mask."

"Well, _yeah."_

"That's _raping my identity,_ dumbass."

Deadpool snorted. "No, _raping_ your identity would be me forcing you down and yanking off your mask while you scream, _'no, please, no!'_ for everyone to hear. Making _you_ remove said mask…not the same!"

Peter's jaw had dropped when the man's voice had pitched higher, an imitation of what Peter could sound like, and the teen didn't appreciate it. And were they _really_ arguing over what rape (be it identity or physical) was? He jerked as the man's hand landed on his hip, strong fingers squeezing along his flesh as Deadpool murmured, "However, if you _begged_ me to fuck you, Spidey, I'd have you screaming my name."

 _"That,_ Deadpool, is called sexual _harassment,"_ Peter's legs tucked in faster than Deadpool could counter, the teen's feet slamming into the hard torso of a man twice his side with enough force to send him hurtling across the restaurant. Peter was up and away from the table, his skin crawling as the creature on the ceiling let out a low string of hissing laughter. Trembling, Peter squared his shoulders, and, as he darted away, tossed over his shoulder, _"And I'd_ never _beg you to fuck me!"_

As Peter retreated, he couldn't shake the riotous laughter that followed. Taking to the rooftops, the teen fled, horrified. He hadn't been able to sense the man, but he knew that if Deadpool _wanted_ to, he would have been able to truly hurt him. But he hadn't. Not really.

And, as Peter headed home, he wasn't sure what to think about the mercenary other than the fact he really needed to avoid the man. He had to think about Aunt May and Uncle Ben, about MJ and Ned and Harry. And, above all else, Peter had to do what was best for _himself_.

Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that Deadpool wouldn't be easily waylaid.

And that thought alone troubled Peter more than he cared to admit.

* * *

 **Author's Note**

I have a new update! About time, I bet you're saying. It's been _so long_. I've been busy!

Recently finished college (I'm not able to get a license to be a Massage Therapist - but that's gonna be a ways off since my boss cut my hours and the license fee is currently out of my budget's range) and am now trying to get all the small details ironed out. I haven't been doing much writing at all, and, when I've tried to come to this chapter, I was stumped on how to approach it. But all the nice reviews have helped me out.

And, yeah, Deadpool _does_ come off as a bit rapey. Hadn't realized that. The man's unstable, for the most part, but at the moment, he's more frustrated than anything else. And doesn't really think _anything_ through. Or have any regard to how some of his advances may come off. But he's utterly unpredictable, and I'm still having a really hard time writing him. Not to mention he's a trained killer with voices in his head.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, so, please: _favorite, follow, and review!_


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